Montana (25 page)

Sam knew he was in love with Molly.

The attraction between them was only part of it. A pretty fantastic part, to tell the truth. Their lovemaking was the most incredible of his life, and it had nothing to do with technique. It was all about
feeling.
He loved Molly, loved her with an intensity that actually hurt.

He'd never been one to indulge in public displays of affection; such exhibitions embarrassed him. Behind closed doors was another matter entirely.

A month was all it had taken. One month as a married man, and Sam found himself looking for reasons to touch Molly. Reasons to linger in the kitchen after the boys left to catch their school bus—just so he could steal a kiss from her. He enjoyed sneaking up behind her when she was washing dishes and slipping his hands beneath her blouse, filling his palms with her breasts. He loved the scent of her, the feel of her, everything about her. Oh, sure, she put up a token protest, but she enjoyed those times as much as he did.

Other than that first night, they'd never really argued, and he was glad. Sam didn't know if he could bear to have her angry with him. He needed her in his life too damn much to risk endangering their relationship.

He glanced at his watch, wondering if she'd already gone to bed. At the thought a smile curved his lips. He couldn't wait to get into bed…with Molly. He suddenly felt a lot less tired.

Taking the steps two at a time, he hurried into the house. Molly stood at the kitchen counter, packing Tom's and Clay's lunches for school.

“Where are the boys?” he asked.

“Upstairs.”

He caught a slight coolness in her response, but let it go. She slapped a slice of bread down on top of another with enough force to flatten both pieces. Sam hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

“You tell me.”

He sighed and walked slowly toward her. She was still angry about that scene with the sheriff. Okay, so maybe he'd overreacted. It wouldn't have hurt to be a bit friendlier to Maynard. If it would keep the peace, Sam would admit to being at fault.

“Does this have to do with Sheriff Maynard?” he asked, maintaining his composure. He'd made a mistake on their wedding night when he'd allowed her anger to fuel his own. If he didn't let his pride get in the way, maybe they could settle this.

“No.”

“No?” Her answer took him by surprise.

She whirled around, and her eyes flashed with indignation and another emotion he couldn't identify.

“You might have told me.” Each word was a bitter accusation.

“Told you what?”

“Don't pretend you don't know.” She opened the refrigerator and shoved the mayonnaise jar inside. It slammed against the pickle jar and toppled the plastic container of ketchup.

Sam couldn't remember ever seeing her like this. “Molly?”

“How about the truth, Sam? Didn't you think I had a right to know about your prison record? What hurts—what
really
hurts—is that you knew about Daniel and how…how difficult it was for me to tell you my ex-husband was in prison…and you didn't say a word.” A sandwich went into the brown paper bag and Sam pitied whichever boy had to eat it.

“I tried to tell you,” he argued. “That day we—”

“Don't,” she said fiercely. “Don't you dare try to squirm your way out of this.”

“It's the truth,” he said with enough vehemence to give her pause. “Think back to the day we applied for the wedding license.”

She squinted as if deep in thought.

“On the ride into town. I started to tell you, and you stopped me and made this long speech about the past being over and how it'd be best if we both put it behind us and started again.”

“I was talking about old lovers!” she flared. “You can't honestly believe I shouldn't know about a felony record. Second-degree assault, Sam. You tried to kill someone and you just conveniently forgot to tell me that before our wedding.”

“I didn't forget. I—”

“You deliberately chose to hide it from me! Which leads me to wonder what else you haven't told me.”

“You know everything about me—well, not about my time in prison, but everything else.” Despite his best intentions, he was fast losing ground and with it his patience. Molly had tried and convicted him without so much as asking the particulars. “As far as I'm concerned you
chose
not to hear it.”

Silence throbbed between them. He stood on one side of the kitchen and she on the other, but the distance between them might have been the entire state of Montana.

“I think you should leave,” she said finally.

“Leave?” She had to be joking. Apparently she'd failed to remember that they were getting close to roundup. Their entire livelihood was at stake. If ever she'd needed him, it was now. Then there was the matter of the land he owned, deeded to him at the time of their marriage. Land he'd fight to keep.

“Move, then—back to the foreman's house.”

“You
are
joking, right?” He prayed she was, but one look said otherwise. “Okay, I'll admit you had a right to know. I should've said something before you married me. I meant to tell you, but hell, I'm not proud of having served time, and I'd prefer to put it behind me. If you're waiting for me to apologize, then I'll do it. I'm sorry, Molly.” It wasn't easy, but he managed to choke out the words, hoping that would satisfy her.

“I feel like such a fool,” she said miserably. “You didn't tell Gramps, either, did you? He'd never have let me marry another criminal.” She turned and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, bracing her hands on the edge.

Feeling wretched and angry at her unfairness, Sam took one step toward her and stopped. He'd done his damnedest to explain, to apologize, but he wasn't getting down on his knees and begging. If she wanted him gone, then fine, he'd leave—just long enough for her to miss him.

He walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door so she'd know he was going. Half hoping she'd race after him and beg him to stay, Sam climbed into his truck. To be on the safe side, he sat there for a moment or two, just to make sure Molly didn't have a change of heart.

She didn't.

With nowhere else to go, Sam drove to the same tavern he'd gone their wedding night. But he wasn't in the mood to drink. Being stupid enough to think whiskey would solve his problems was exactly what had landed him in jail; that wasn't going to happen again. Sam considered himself a fast learner. Anger and alcohol didn't mix.

Willie's smelled of stale cigarette smoke and beer. He recognized a couple of cowhands who were playing a game of pool in the corner. The music was too loud, the conversation too boisterous. Almost everyone here was looking for a good time.

The only thing Sam wanted was a dark corner to sit in for a while. To think and brood and figure out a way to get Molly to see reason. Dammit all, just when he thought everything was going well, this had to happen. That bastard Maynard couldn't resist telling her, could he?

He claimed the stool at the farthest end of the bar and let it be known that he wasn't seeking company.

He'd been nursing his beer for an hour or so when he saw her. The hooker who'd talked him into returning to the hotel on his wedding night. It might have saved him a whole lot of heartache if he hadn't gone back; at least, that was the way he felt now. Any other night he might have greeted her and thanked her for the best damn advice anyone had ever given him.

Feeling his attention, she swiveled around and held his look. It took her a moment to recognize him. As soon as she did, her face relaxed into an easy smile. It wasn't a hooker's smile, either, but one of—hell, he didn't know—friendship, he guessed.

When her potential customer didn't pan out, she made her way across the room to where he sat.

“How ya doing, cowboy?”

He shrugged.

“Still married?”

He wasn't sure the marriage would last beyond this night, but for the moment he could answer her honestly. “You might say that.”

“How's the missus?”

“Madder'n hops on a griddle.”

She cocked one expressive eyebrow. “Don't tell me you had another tiff?”

“Looks that way.” He glanced down at his near-empty mug. “My fault this time.”

“You gonna tell her that?”

“I already did, but she's really pissed off. I don't blame her. Thought I'd give her time to cool off.”

She smiled. “Good idea.”

“How're you doing?” he asked just to keep the conversation going. He felt lost and more than a little lonely. Being alone had never bothered him until he married Molly, and now it was as if…as if he wasn't complete without her. “It's Pearl, isn't it?”

She nodded. “I'm doing so-so,” she said.

“Business good?”

“Fair.” She brushed a strand of bleached blond hair away from her face, and he noticed the dark shadows beneath her eyes. They were prominent enough that makeup couldn't completely disguise them.

“Anything I can do to help?” Maybe he wasn't such a fast learner, after all. It was helping a woman that had landed him in jail that first day in Sweetgrass. But dammit, he
owed
Pearl.

Sam wanted to believe he wouldn't have taken her up on her offer the night of his wedding. He didn't think so, but the mood he'd been in…he just didn't know. What she'd done was a generous thing. He'd never heard of a hooker who'd suggest a client go back to his wife.

“I…” She shook her head. “No, but thanks. It's sweet of you to ask.”

The door opened and a couple of rough-looking men, dressed in fatigues, walked in. Pearl's attention flashed to them. Potential clients, Sam guessed, but her reaction said otherwise. She whirled around and Sam noted she'd gone pale beneath her makeup.

“I changed my mind, cowboy,” she said, her voice trembling. “If you still want to help me, you can.”

Sam set his mug down on the bar. “What do you need?”

She bit her lower lip. “A way out of here. I don't want them to see me.”

Sam didn't hesitate. “You got it.” He wrapped his arm around her as if they were longtime lovers and, using his body as a shield, escorted her toward the door. The bartender glanced over in surprise, but said nothing. The two men climbed onto bar stools, and if they noticed Sam and the woman leaving, they took no heed.

Not knowing what had given Pearl such a fright, Sam thought it prudent to drop her off somewhere safe.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked. “A friend's house?”

“No.” Her short laugh was unexpected. “Call girls don't generally have a lot of friends.”

“What about other…you know, other girls like you.”

“Not in this town, honey. It's every girl for herself.”

This was a world Sam didn't know and had no desire to explore. “Where do you want me to drive you?”

He was all the way down Front Street before she answered. “Home, I guess.” She gave him the address, which was directly behind Willie's, so he circled back.

“Are you sure it's safe there?”

“I've got protection,” she said, “and they know it.”

Sam wanted to do more for her, but he'd learned the hard way that he should just hightail it out of the area before whatever was going down got messy. He'd done his good deed for the night.

He pulled up in front of the address she'd given him. She was about to open the door and climb out when she surprised the hell out of him by throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“A thank-you. Now go home to your wife and tell her how sorry you are. If she's smart, she'll forgive you. Decent men aren't all that easy to find, and you're one of them.”

“Thanks.”

She got out of the pickup and he waited until she was safely inside the house and had turned on the lights before he drove off.

She'd given him good advice on his wedding night, and there wasn't any reason to believe her words of wisdom wouldn't work this time. With a renewed sense of hope Sam drove back to the ranch. At least the dogs were glad to see him.

The house was dark and quiet when he entered. Molly must be in bed. Sam was glad; it would be easier to reason with her there. He thought so, anyway. He tiptoed into the bedroom. The moonlight showed Molly's still form, and her slow, even breathing told him she was asleep.

Stripping off his clothes, he lifted the covers and got in beside her.

“I'm home, Molly,” he whispered, and slid his arms around her waist. His hand crept up, sought her breast. Probably not the wisest move, but holding her like this had become habit.