Montana (22 page)

“I know so.” He kissed her with a pent-up hunger that nearly devoured her. Molly's response was immediate and just as heated, surprising even her. The kiss was wild and wonderful, and their hands moved frantically, touching, arousing, exciting.

Molly let her fingers creep up his chest, enjoying the smooth feel of his skin, appreciating the man in her arms. Nothing mattered right now except their fierce physical craving for each other.

Molly linked her fingers behind his neck and drew his mouth to hers. The kisses that followed were hot and urgent. When he positioned himself above her, she shifted her body to accommodate his. Raising her head from the pillow, Molly kissed him, barely allowing their lips to touch. The kiss was more breath than contact.

“Molly.” He said her name in a pain-filled groan, then caught her hips, holding her still against the mattress. Sweat glistened on his upper lip and forehead.

Panting beneath him, her arms stretched out at her sides, Molly dragged a harsh breath through her lungs. She lifted her head just enough to touch the tight cords in his neck with her tongue. He tasted of salt and man and smelled faintly of roses.

He made love to her, filled her body with his own, until they reached a wild exhaustive crescendo that left her utterly drained.

There was no sound but their breathing, harsh and rapid. Neither spoke. For her part Molly felt incapable of saying a single word. Sam's breathing steadied first and he smiled at her, then spread soft kisses over her face.

“How do you feel?” he whispered, holding her in the crook of his arm.

“Wonderful.”

Sam kissed the crown of her head. “Me, too.”

“I want to be a good wife, Sam…I know I started this night off all wrong, and I regret—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Don't apologize. It isn't necessary. Just promise me that from now on we'll talk everything out. It's the only chance we have. This marriage can be a good one if we're both willing to work at it.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

Happier than she could remember being in a very long while, Molly hugged him close. If they shared nothing more than incredible sex in this marriage, it would be enough.

She'd been in love once and the love hadn't even lasted the length of her marriage. She was afraid to count on it again. She cared for Sam, respected him, needed him. But loving him would be dangerous. Loving him meant risking more than she could afford to lose. She had too much at stake to let her heart get in the way.

 

This unbridled feeling of happiness couldn't last. Molly was sure of it. The two weeks following her wedding were the best days of her life. Her boys were content. Each had adjusted in his own way to the change from their lives in California to life here in Montana. Tom spent his days riding with Sam, learning all he could about horses and ranching. He displayed a natural talent that Sam fostered and encouraged. Sam's approval and the attention he paid Tom did wonders for the boy's self-esteem; the changes in him were dramatic. In two months he'd gone from a moody adolescent to a hardworking responsible young man.

Clay stuck close to the ranch house with Molly and Gramps. Her younger son worked countless hours training Bullwinkle. The boy and his puppy were inseparable. Sometimes Clay helped Molly in the garden or with work around the house.

Clay also spent a lot of time with Gramps playing cribbage. Or he'd sit contentedly on the porch with the old man, whittling away at his block of wood, inordinately proud of his masterpiece. He and Gramps had grown very close.

Gramps seemed happy, too—although his health had declined to the point that he spent most of the day in his chair or listening to the radio. It seemed he had found serenity, a quiet peace.

Molly saw her husband off each morning, then counted the hours until he returned. It wasn't that she didn't keep busy; with the house and the garden she had more than enough to fill her days. Every evening she'd wait for him. He and Tom would ride in, exhausted, and the three of them would walk to the barn. Any outward display of affection between husband and wife was reserved for the privacy of their bedroom.

In two weeks' time their eagerness for each other hadn't dissipated. Always, after they made love, he held her in his arms and they talked. He told her about his years with the rodeo and the accident that had cost him his career. She kissed his scars and her eyes filled with tears at the pain each one must have caused him.

One such night she asked Sam, “Are you happy?”

He went very still at the question and she wondered if she'd unwittingly stepped over the line of what they could openly discuss. Perhaps he thought she was asking him to declare his love for her. She wasn't. If he did love her, he'd tell her in his own good time.

“Yes, I'm happy.”

It wasn't the words but his voice. The way he said it. With honesty, looking directly into her eyes. With gratitude, as if she, and only she, had done this. Made him happy.

“I am, too,” she whispered.

“No regrets?”

She slid her fingers through the dusting of dark curly hair on his chest. “Not recently,” she teased, and was rewarded with a playful swat on the backside.

As she occasionally did, she responded in French, telling him that she'd like to have another child some day. With him.

“Are you going to tell me what you just said?”

“Oh, sometime.”

“I understood one word.”

“My, my, and what would that be?”

“Baby.” His eyes were serious. “Molly, is there a possibility you could be…”

“Don't worry,” she assured him. With money tight and the problems around the ranch still unsolved, no one needed to tell her that now wasn't the best time to have a child. Later, though, she'd bring up the subject again.

It was midnight before Molly fell asleep. She wasn't sure what woke her two hours later. The full moon shone like a beacon into the bedroom. Sitting up, she experienced the oddest sensation that something wasn't right.

After a moment, Sam, too, stirred and sat up.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice groggy with sleep.

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Did you hear something?”

“No. It's just…” She couldn't put it into words.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his pants.

Molly threw on her housecoat and followed him downstairs. The first thing she noticed was that the front door was open.

On the hottest days of summer Gramps usually left it open to allow a breeze between his bedroom and the living room. But the evening had been cool with the promise of a rainstorm. The winds had come and then just as quickly shifted north.

As she went to close the door she saw him. Gramps had fallen asleep in his rocking chair. Sam stepped into the kitchen and turned off the light, then hurried through the house to check the other doors.

“Gramps,” Molly said softly, sitting in the rocker beside him. “Wake up. It's time to go inside.”

He looked so peaceful. Chatting with him, she waited for Sam's return so her husband could help her guide Gramps to his bedroom.

“I love Sam. You knew I would, didn't you?” She rocked contentedly and glanced up at the full moon, now obscured by clouds. “You were so right.”

She glanced over at Gramps and could have sworn she saw him smile in his sleep.

“Molly?” Sam called.

“Out here,” she said softly. “Gramps fell asleep on the porch.”

Sam joined her and gently shook Gramps, trying to wake him. After a moment he turned away and clutched one of the porch railings.

“Sam?”

He turned back and knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in his. “Molly.” He kissed her fingertips and held her hands against his lips. “My love. Gramps isn't asleep. I'm afraid he's gone.”

M
olly didn't sleep the rest of the night. She didn't even try. Instead, she sat on the porch holding the cameo Gramps had given her. His Molly's cameo. The one she'd worn at her own wedding. It seemed so unfair that he should die now. Her mind filled with a thousand regrets, begrudging every day she'd wasted before moving to Montana. If only she'd known sooner. The words echoed in her heart.
If only, if only, if only…
But her tears hadn't come yet.

To Molly's gratitude, Sam made the necessary phone calls as soon as the day began to lighten. The coroner was the first to arrive. He'd spoken briefly to Sam and asked her a couple of questions, but afterward she didn't remember either the questions or her responses. Later Mr. Farley from Ross Memorial stopped by to discuss the burial. Gramps had made his preferences clear in a letter he'd mailed to Ross Memorial a few months earlier. Mr. Farley had brought it with him. Gramps had stated that he didn't want money wasted on a funeral, and as for a service, if there was to be one, he wanted it private. Just his immediate family. Then, like an afterthought, he'd granted permission for Ginny to attend if she wanted, but no one else.

Once again Molly was glad to let Sam handle things. When the burial had been arranged, Mr. Farley left with the promise that he'd be in touch shortly.

By far the most difficult task of the day was telling the boys. It astonished Molly that they'd both slept through the commotion that followed her discovery. Rather than wake Tom and Clay, she'd let them sleep. In the morning Clay came downstairs first, took one look at her and knew something was terribly wrong.

“What's going on?” he asked, standing in the middle of the kitchen, socks and sneakers dangling from one hand.

“It's Gramps,” Molly said gently. “I'm afraid he's gone. He died last night.”

Clay's face showed shock and disbelief. “He
can't
be dead!” her son insisted. “He was all right when I went to bed. We were on the porch together, and he was fine then.”

Molly bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's true.”

“It can't be!” Clay screamed. “Make her tell me it isn't true,” he cried, turning to Sam. “He can't be—he told me about D day and Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge. He lived through the war.” Clay's face tightened with desire as he gazed at Sam, begging him to tell a different truth.

“I'm sorry, son.” Sam shook his head.

With that Clay burst into tears and buried his face against Molly, sobbing so hard his entire body shook. She wrapped her arms around his thin shoulders, blinking back her own burning tears as the emotion seared through her, as fresh and painful as the moment Sam first told her.

“What's wrong?” Tom asked as he stepped into the kitchen. Sleep blurred his eyes, and his hair was uncombed and wild-looking. He paused, glancing from his brother to Sam and then her, his eyes filled with question.

Molly told him.

Once he realized Gramps was dead, Tom exploded out of the house, leaving the screen door to slam in his wake. He was gone for more than an hour, and when he returned he joined Molly on the porch, silently slipping into the empty rocker at her side. She longed for words to ease his pain, but could find none, so she remained quiet. It didn't matter. She knew he just needed to be close to her.

After about fifteen minutes he stood, his eyes red and puffy. Voice breaking, he said, “I was
proud
to be related to a man like Gramps.”

Molly wasn't sure how Tom felt about being embraced just then, but she pretended not to remember that he was too cool to be hugged by his mother. She held out her arms to him and he bent down to hug her, hard. When he left, she watched him rub his forearm across his eyes. Molly cried then, uncontrollably. Cried till she thought she had no tears left.

She sat on the porch all day. Without asking, Sam brought her food and coffee every few hours. She drank the coffee but barely ate. Activity continued around her. Sam kept the boys occupied, granting her the opportunity to seek her own solace. By evening she'd found a certain peace. An acceptance of sorts.

She clung to that and kept it close to her heart, wanting to celebrate Gramps's life, not concentrate on his death. She refused to get swallowed up in the grief of his passing. It was what he would have wanted, and knowing that helped soothe the terrible ache of his loss.

Gramps had never been religious, but he was a man of faith. Many an evening, he'd sat on this very porch with his worn Bible spread open in his lap, reading from the book of Psalms.

One night, shortly after the incident of the downed fence, Molly had found Gramps with his Bible. He'd looked up. “King David was a man who knew trouble,” he'd told her. “Real trouble, and he said we aren't to lean unto our own understanding.”

Molly wasn't sure what that meant, but it was the only time she could remember him commenting on anything the Bible had to say.

That night at dinnertime—their first at the ranch without Gramps—Molly made an effort to put a meal on the table. Her own appetite was still nonexistent. Picking fresh greens from the garden, she made a huge taco salad and set it in the middle of the table, instructing the boys to help themselves.

“Aren't you going to eat, Mom?” Clay asked.

“I will later when Sam returns,” she said, but she wouldn't. Couldn't. Everything hurt just then. Her head. Her heart. Even her stomach.

Sam had run into town, for what she couldn't remember now. In fact, she could remember almost nothing of what had happened that day. Knowing Gramps's death was inevitable, Molly had prepared herself for it. Or so she'd believed. But now that the reality of it was upon her, she realized that it was impossible to ever feel ready for death, the death of someone you loved. Grief still came unabated. No matter how certain or even welcomed death might be, it was always a shock.

“You okay, Mom?” Tom asked, joining her on the porch after the sun had set. He sat on the top step, turning so he could study her. Clay came with him, silent and sullen, and held the puppy in his lap. Boris and Natasha curled up on the rug outside the door as if they, too, had come to give their farewells to Gramps.

She nodded. “I'd hoped we'd have more time with him.”

“Me, too,” Tom said.

“I wish you both could have known him better. He was a wonderful man.” It hurt to talk and her fingers clenched and unclenched on the wooden chair arms.

“I'm glad for the time we had.”

Her fourteen-year-old son's wisdom touched her heart. Tom focused on what he could be grateful for, instead of all he'd lost. He, too, had achieved a hard-won acceptance. He counted his blessings.

“He taught me to whittle and I can play cribbage now,” Clay said.

Gramps had taught her the same things when she was about the same age.

“Last night he talked more about the war,” Tom told her. “He told us about men dying even before they made it to land, their bodies bloating in the water.”

Molly's hand reached for the cameo and gripped it hard. He'd called it his good-luck charm. He'd carried the cameo into battle with him, taking a small tangible piece of the love he shared with his wife. For protection. As a token of faith in the future.

“He talked quite a bit about dying and how it was nothing to fear,” Tom added, as if remembering this for the first time. “He said that with some folks death can be a friend.”

“A friend?” Molly knew what he meant but had never heard such talk from her grandfather.

“For those who'd made their peace with God,” Clay said. “That's what he said. I think Gramps was ready.”

“He talked about a lot of things last night,” Tom said. “But mainly it was about the war and about your dad and his Molly.”

The tears came again, unwanted. Molly hadn't meant to cry, not in front of her sons. She didn't want to upset them further.

“Mom…”

“I know, honey, I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop. I'm going to miss him so much.” At least she wasn't alone anymore. At first Gramps's suggestion that she marry Sam had seemed an interference, an insult, but she knew this terrible void inside her would be ten times deeper if it wasn't for her husband. She accepted that Gramps was gone, but she would always miss him.

She held a handkerchief to her eyes. So many tears had been shed that her eyes ached and her nose was red and sore from blowing.

“I liked him,” Clay said quietly. “He might have been old, but he knew a lot of stuff and he never treated me like a kid. Even when I made mistakes in cribbage, he never made me think I was dumb.”

 

The burial service was held three days later. Afterward Sam, Molly and the boys stood at one side of the grave and Ginny stood across from them as the casket was lowered into the ground. The minister who'd married her and Sam said a prayer, then briefly hugged Molly and exchanged handshakes with Sam and the boys. Molly lingered, as did Ginny Dougherty, who repeatedly dabbed a tissue to her eyes.

“I'm gonna miss that crotchety old coot,” Ginny said, and blew her nose loudly.

“We'll all miss him,” Sam said. His arm rested across Molly's back, and she was grateful for his comfort and support. Molly didn't know what she would have done without him these past few days. He'd given her strength.

“We were neighbors for thirty years,” Ginny continued, weeping softly now. “Walt and Molly stood with me when I buried Hank.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand and took a couple of moments to compose herself. “Walt and me might not have agreed on a lot of things, but I knew if I ever needed a helping hand, he'd be there.”

Ginny's tears came in earnest then, and she raised both hands to her face. “Damn, but I'm gonna miss him.”

Molly stepped away from Sam and put her arms around the other woman. “It's going to be mighty lonely without Gramps around,” she said, “especially with the boys starting school next week. Do you think you could stop by for tea one day? It'd be good to have a friend.”

Ginny nodded and hugged Molly fiercely. “I never had children, you know. If I had, I would've wanted a daughter like you.”

Molly savored the compliment. The older woman was a lot like Gramps—just as ornery and just as honest. And just as lonely.

“Would you like to come back to the ranch with us for dinner?” Molly asked.

Ginny shook her head. “No thanks, I've got to get back. Fred's on his own.” She kissed Molly's cheek, then hurried to her truck, parked near the cemetery entrance.

As they left the graveyard, Molly realized that Ginny had been sweet on Gramps. She should've guessed it earlier. All the years they'd lived next to each other, watched out for each other, fought, argued and battled. And loved. Silently. Without ever saying a word to each other. Without ever a touch. They'd been the best of friends and the best of enemies.

 

The shadow-filled alley behind Willie's was deserted now that the tavern had closed for the night. Monroe sat in his car with the lights off and waited for Lance to show. He didn't trust his fellow Loyalist and considered him a loose cannon. In the past couple of months, Lance had grown even more unpredictable, impatient. It grated on Monroe's nerves. He wanted Lance gone, but Burns wouldn't hear of it.

The car door opened and Lance climbed into the front seat.

“You're late,” Munroe muttered. He glanced at his watch, letting the man know he begrudged every one of those five minutes.

Not only was Lance out of uniform, he'd grown lazy. Any discipline had vanished from his personal hygiene and his attitude. His face bristled with a two-day beard and his fatigues were rank with body odor. His boots were unpolished, one of the laces broken. Monroe suspected he'd snuck off to attend another rodeo.

“I take it the old man's dead and buried?” Lance said.

“The service was this afternoon,” Monroe confirmed.

“Did that lawyer cousin of yours convince his granddaughter to sell yet?”

Monroe wished to hell it was that easy. “Unfortunately, no, and now that she's married Dakota, we're forced to tighten the screws.”

“You got any ideas?”

This was supposed to be Lance's area of expertise. The Loyalists had imported him from Idaho, reasoning that it was better if an outsider handled the dirty work, sparing Monroe any hint of suspicion. Other than to make contact with Monroe, Lance wasn't supposed to venture into town. The less seen of him the better. Only, he'd grown bored living in his wilderness camp and started hanging out with another Loyalist, playing pool and getting drunk.

“I thought you were supposed to be the idea man,” Monroe snapped.

“I am. All I need to know is how far you want me to go.”

Monroe gritted his teeth, trying to control his irritation. “Do what you have to do and don't bother me with the details, understand? And stay out of town.”