Montana (31 page)

He must have drifted off to sleep because when he woke up again it was morning. Sun leaked into the bedroom from between the heavy drapes. Pearl's nightgown was next to his pillow where he'd flung it. Sitting up, he reached for it now and brought it to his chest. He wadded up the soft material as he buried his face in it, longing to immerse himself in her perfumed scent. But the beautiful aroma of the roses, like Pearl, was gone.

 

Sam was definitely pleased.

Money worries had festered in him for nearly a month. Beef prices were at a record low. Ranchers couldn't afford to raise cattle in this current economic climate. At this price, it actually
cost
them to raise beef.

That was what the cattlemen's meeting had been about. As a group, they'd taken their concerns to the bank and Mr. Burns. It seemed the banker was anxious to help when faced with all the ranchers in the county withdrawing their funds en masse.

That morning when he'd left Molly, Sam had impulsively made a dinner date with her. At the time there'd been nothing to celebrate. Now there was. He had the loan, and although the terms weren't the best, it was the first piece of good news in quite a while.

“Are you going to tell me?” Molly asked, sitting across the table from him. She'd barely glanced at the menu.

“All in good time,” he said, grinning at her. She looked especially lovely, and he wondered if he could keep his eyes off her long enough to actually eat.

“Sam, I swear, I'll have a perfectly awful evening until you tell me what happened this morning.”

There was no help for it. He would've preferred to hold out a bit longer, but…His grin felt like it spread halfway across his face; that was how good he felt. “We got the loan,” he announced.

Molly closed her eyes and brought her fingers to her lips. “Oh, Sam.”

“The terms aren't that terrific,” he felt obliged to tell her.

“But at least we have the money we'll need for now, right?”

Sam nodded and reached across the table for her hand. “First half's due December first.”

Her eyes continued to hold his. “So soon?”

“I'm not worried about it, because I'll sell off the last of the herd then. Even if beef prices stay as low as they have been, we'll be able to meet the payment without a problem.”

Molly leaned back in her chair, and the relief he saw in her eyes humbled him. He'd had no idea she'd been this worried. Molly was gutsy and determined, and she'd silently clung to her doubts and fears, rather than place more pressure on him. Sam loved her for it; at the same time he was sorry she hadn't come to him.

Flustered, she brushed her emotion aside. “I'm sorry—I don't know what came over me.”

“We're going to be all right.” If nothing else, he wanted to reassure her that no matter what happened, they'd find a way. They'd manage.

“I know. It's just that…” Sniffling she picked up her purse and sorted through the contents until she found what she wanted. A tissue. She dabbed at both eyes, then stuffed it back inside the purse.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Tom?” she asked in an obvious effort to change the subject. She blinked furiously to keep back fresh tears.

“He was coming into the house just as I was leaving.”

“He had some good news, too,” Molly told him.

“About the football team?” Although thin and wiry, Tom had turned out to be an excellent wide receiver. Brian Tucker had made Tom his favorite pass receiver, and Tom had quickly advanced from junior-varsity level to varsity—something of a rarity for a sophomore. Although he had no right to feel proud of Tom's accomplishments, Sam did. Damn proud.

“By the way, they found the person responsible for the graffiti,” Molly said.

“Who?” Sam asked with keen interest.

“Tony Hudson.”

The name meant nothing to Sam. “Another student?”

“A senior. He was caught doing some more spray-painting by Mr. Wilson himself.”

“Why'd he do it?” Sam figured someone—this Tony?—had purposely set Tom up. Either that or it was a coincidence, which wasn't too likely in Sam's opinion.

“So many young people are involved in gangs these days,” Molly said. “And just as many want to be. It's frightening.”

“Even here in Sweetgrass?” That was incomprehensible to Sam.

“Mr. Wilson seems to think so.”

Sam mulled that over for a moment. “Did Tony have anything to say in his defense?”

Molly laughed. “This kid needs a good attorney, because his defense is almost ludicrous. He claims someone hired him to do it.”

Sam went still. “Who?”

Molly shook her head at the improbability of such a statement. “I think someone ought to contact Russell, don't you?”

Sam grinned, but he wasn't amused. With everything that had happened at the ranch this summer, he wasn't taking such talk lightly. What better way to undermine and discourage a rancher than to attack his children? It was difficult enough to protect his cattle and land. Now Sam knew he had to shield the boys, as well. The best approach would be to sit down and talk with them, man to man.

“You're so serious all at once,” Molly said, her happiness shining through her smile. “This is supposed to be a night to set our worries aside and enjoy each other's company, remember?”

“I couldn't have said it better myself.”

“Oh, before I forget, I volunteered you for the school Harvest Moon Festival.”

Sam groaned in good-humored resignation. All week, Tom and Clay had been joking about whether or not Sam was going to help out at the school festival. Sam wasn't altogether comfortable with the prospect and had half hoped it wouldn't arise. “Okay. What am I supposed to do?”

“Don't you dare look at me like that!”

Sam couldn't keep from laughing, and at Molly's puzzled smile, he explained, “You sound just like a wife.”

“I am a wife, as if I needed to remind you.”

Sam was still astonished by how much he loved this sense of belonging, of being a part of her and the boys' lives. A family man. A member of the community. A couple of hours stuck behind some booth at the Harvest Moon Festival was a small price to pay.

“Sam.”

Dick Arnold approached the table, and Sam got to his feet to shake hands with him. Then he introduced the other rancher to Molly.

“I wanted to thank you for what you said this morning,” Dick said. “Hell, if it hadn't been for you, I don't know what we would've done. You sure helped us keep things on track. So thank you, Sam, and I'm saying this for a whole lot of us.”

Sam was too shocked to answer. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with compliments. They embarrassed him. He wished Dick had chosen to speak with him privately, rather than in front of Molly.

At last he said, “I'm glad we were able to come up with a workable solution.”

“Yeah, but you're the one who convinced us to present a united front. There was some talk after the meeting about nominating you for president next year. Would you consider running? We need someone with a clear head and a sense of direction.” He paused, then chuckled. “Look, I didn't mean to interrupt your evening out. Just wanted to stop off, meet the missus and say thanks.” Dick touched the brim of his hat. “Nice meeting you,” he said to Molly, then turned and walked away.

Knowing his wife was about to hound him with unnecessary questions, Sam reached for the menu. As if on cue, the waitress appeared and they placed their order. He was a little disappointed when Molly declined a glass of wine. It would have gone nicely with their dinner.

“Tell me what you've volunteered me for,” he said, steering the conversation back to the Harvest Moon Festival.

“Frying hamburgers between six and seven.”

Sam gave an exaggerated groan.

“I'll be working the cotton-candy machine at the same time,” Molly added, as if she needed to prove she was doing her part. “Mrs. Mayfield is an expert at getting people to work together for the common good.”

“And who, may I ask, is Mrs. Mayfield?”

“Mrs. Mayfield, the choir director from church. She's coordinating the event this year.”

Sam grumbled under his breath, but he didn't really object. In fact, he looked forward to slinging a few burgers. Not bad for a man who'd once feared the future.

A calliope played loudly in the background. The grounds behind the high school had taken on a festive air. Schoolchildren raced in and out of the gymnasium, where they spent their tickets on such wildly popular games as the Balloon Toss and the Jelly Bean Count.

Molly was busy swirling cotton candy around small white tubes. The sticky pink stuff decorated her clothes and tangled in her hair.

Sam dished up hamburgers close by, chatting with their neighbors as if he'd lived in the community all his life. Every now and then she'd look up to see him smiling and exchanging greetings with a fellow rancher. She'd heard from other wives that Sam's speech at the Cattlemen's Association meeting had stirred the ranchers into action. It made her proud to be his wife.

The full yellow moon dominated the evening sky. The air was crisp and cold, but Molly didn't mind. Gaiety and laughter could be heard everywhere, mingled with occasional screams from the Haunted House. Mr. Wilson, the high school principal, strolled past and introduced her to his wife. Mr. Givens, from the supply store, bought cotton candy for his grandchildren. He'd donated two bales of hay and a thousand pennies for the penny search, scheduled at seven.

Tom and Clay had disappeared the minute they arrived, intent on avoiding the embarrassment of being seen with their parents. Sam had given them each enough money to buy their own dinners, but Molly guessed the money had gone for fairground junk food—nothing she would've considered
real
food.

Toward the end of her shift, Russell Letson stopped by and bought some cotton candy, which he presented to a toddler who was begging her mother for a goodie. Molly had guessed there was a kindness about him, a gentleness. He seemed quiet and more withdrawn than she remembered, but more at peace with himself, too.

“It's good to see you, Molly.”

“You, too.”

“Are you happy?”

It wasn't a question she would have expected from him. “Very.”

“I'm really pleased. Walt was right, you know. Sam's a good man.”

“I think so, too.”

Russell nodded and with a small wave, walked on to another booth.

“Mom!” Panting, Tom burst onto the scene a few minutes later. “I can't find Clay! Not anywhere.”

“I'm sure he's around.” Molly scanned the crowd, but to no avail.

“I've looked everywhere! Mom, something's happened to him!”

“Tom—”

“No one's seen him in more than an hour. I've looked. Everyone's looked.”

“I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation. He's probably sitting in a corner petting a dog or something.”

“You didn't believe me before!” Tom shouted, gripping her arm. “Believe me now.”

A chill raced down Molly's spine.

“An
hour,
Mom. I've been looking for an hour!”

Tom was close to panic. Molly had never seen him like this. She held his look for an instant, then said, “I'll get Sam.”

S
am saw the fear in Molly's eyes even before he heard that Clay was nowhere to be found. “I'm sure he's here somewhere,” he said, confident the youngster was just off with friends.

“That's what I thought, too,” Tom said, clutching Sam's shirtsleeve. “But I looked everywhere and I've talked to all his friends. No one's seen him. No one. I was holding on to some of his money for him, and we were supposed to meet so I could give it to him. He didn't show up. That was an hour ago.”

“Do you think he might have gotten involved in something and lost track of the time?” Sam asked.

“I'd think that, except for one thing. He came after me twice for his money, and I told him he had to wait until seven-thirty like we agreed. He'd been bugging me for it earlier, and then he didn't show.”

Sam couldn't pretend he wasn't worried. “So that's when you started asking around?”

“Yeah. No one's seen him.”

“I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for this,” Molly said again, as if that would make it true. But no one had to remind her that there was a murderer loose in Sweetgrass.

“You're right—I'm sure there's a good reason.” Sam slipped his arm around his wife's shoulders. “I suggest we break up and start searching.” He glanced at his watch. “We'll go in three different directions and meet back here in fifteen minutes. Okay?”

Both Molly and Tom agreed with a nod. A couple of Clay's friends wanted to help, and Sam asked them to check the gymnasium. Afraid the boy might have been lured into the parking lot, Sam headed in that direction himself. He retrieved a flashlight from the truck and walked slowly down the lanes of parked vehicles.

He called Clay's name repeatedly, and when he'd covered the whole lot with no success, he returned to the rendezvous point. Molly and Tom were waiting for him. He saw by the worry in their eyes that they hadn't found Clay, either. A knot of fear tightened in his stomach. While he didn't want to alarm his family, he was growing more apprehensive by the minute.

This was the worst thing that had happened yet, and it was hard not to believe that everything was connected. He couldn't stand this, couldn't stand the thought of Clay being in danger. If ever he'd needed proof of his feelings for Molly's children, the tension in his gut spelled it out.

“Mom!”

At the sound of Clay's voice, Molly whirled around. The boy ran toward her, legs pumping frantically. He burst into tears and caught her about the waist, clinging as though he never intended to release her.

“Where were you?” Tom demanded, so angry his face was white.

“Someone grabbed me,” Clay said, breathless and holding on tightly to his mother. His face was streaked with dirt and tears.

“Who?” Sam asked, squatting down so he was eye level with the boy. He gripped Clay's upper arms and waited for a response.

“I…don't know. I didn't see who it was, 'cept he wore army boots and one of his shoelaces had broken and was tied short. He threw a gunnysack over my head and carried me away. I couldn't see anything! Then he stuffed me in the trunk of a car and closed it.”

“Dear Lord!” Molly gasped.

“I pounded and shouted, but no one came—no one heard me.” Clay made a gallant effort not to start sobbing again. “At first I thought it was Tom.”

“I'd never do that!” his older brother cried in outrage.

“I know you wouldn't,” Clay said. “Then I thought they wanted my money, but I'd already spent it, and besides, he didn't even ask.”

“Did you hear his voice?”

“No. But he was big and mean, and—”

“I thought you said you didn't see him,” Sam reminded the boy.

“I didn't, but he lifted me up as if I didn't weigh hardly anything and I came high off the ground and when I kicked him, he didn't even grunt.”

“How'd you get away?” Molly asked in a shaky voice.

“I…I don't know. Someone opened the trunk, pulled me out and untied my hands, then called me a bunch of dirty names. By the time I got the gunnysack off my head he was gone. I was afraid he'd change his mind and come after me again so I took off running.”

“I think we'd better report this to the sheriff,” Sam said, more angry than he could remember being in a long time. First the incident with Tom and now this. He placed a protective hand on Clay's shoulder.

“No!” Clay shouted. “I don't like Sheriff Maynard.”

Lord knew Sam wasn't keen on the man himself, but he wasn't about to let this incident pass. Someone had tried to kidnap his son, and personal feelings aside, Sam wouldn't put Clay at risk. Not for anything.

“We're talking to the sheriff,” Molly countered in a tone that said she wouldn't be persuaded otherwise.

They found Maynard sitting at one of the long rows of picnic tables, eating his hamburger off a paper plate. He didn't look like he wanted to be disturbed, but that didn't deter Sam.

He promptly reported the attempted kidnapping. The sheriff listened intently and wrote down the particulars. “I'd like to speak to Clay myself.”

“Fine,” Sam said.

The sheriff wiped his hands on a paper napkin and stood. He paused, looking back at Sam. “We got started off on the wrong foot, Dakota. I seem to have jumped to conclusions about you. I haven't seen many guys make turnarounds, but you did. You've proved me wrong. If you're willing, I'd like to put the past behind us.”

Sam nodded, astonished by the other man's willingness to let bygones be bygones.

Sheriff Maynard stuck out his hand and Sam shook it.

A ruckus broke out on the far side of the football field, close to where the hay had been spread for the penny toss. The lawman headed in that direction and Sam followed. A group of teenage boys had gathered in a wide circle around a fight in progress. Most were too involved in shouting encouragement to notice the sheriff and Sam approach the outer circle. It didn't take Sam long to recognize the smaller of the two boys.

His first instinct was to jump in and break it up, but he knew Tom wouldn't appreciate his interference, nor did Sam want to embarrass the boy. He expected Sheriff Maynard to do it for him, but to his surprise the lawman stood back for a few minutes and did nothing.

“Sometimes it's best to let them get it out of their systems,” he said, chewing on a toothpick. “I'll step in if it gets out of hand.”

Sam wasn't sure he agreed, seeing that the other boy had a good thirty pounds on Tom. But what Tom lacked in weight, he more than compensated for with agility. He took a solid hit to the face and Sam flinched, knowing the boy would come away with a shiner. Tom slammed a fist into his opponent's gut, and the kid stumbled backward holding on to his belly. After that, the sheriff stepped into the fray.

He spat out his toothpick. “Okay, okay, that's enough. Let's break it up here.” The crowd parted and the lawman grabbed each boy by the scruff of the neck. “You two're finished, understand?”

Tom's nose was bleeding and his right eye had already started to swell.

“Now shake hands and be on your way.”

Neither boy was willing to extend a hand.

“Let me put it like this,” the sheriff said calmly. “Either shake hands or I'll take you both down to the office, charge you with disturbing the peace and give you a hefty fine. The choice is yours.”

Tom and his opponent reluctantly shook hands.

“Good. Now get out of here, and if I see you fighting again, you're going to be in more trouble than you want to even know about. You understand me?”

Tom lowered his head and nodded. As the crowd dispersed, Sam hurried over to him. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” he asked, giving Tom his handkerchief.

Tom shook his head.

“Okay. That's up to you. We've talked about fights before, and if you chose to take on someone who's bigger and uglier than you, you must've had a good reason. If you want to leave it at that, then I respect your decision.”

Tom held the handkerchief to his bloody nose and looked at Sam through his one good eye. “That's Tony Hudson.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar. It took Sam a couple of minutes to remember that Tony Hudson was the boy linked to the graffiti incident.

“I think he might have had something to do with what happened to Clay tonight, too,” Tom muttered. “I wouldn't put it past him.”

Sam gently squeezed the boy's shoulder. He understood that a man had to protect what was his—and that included his reputation. Tony Hudson had tried to destroy that. Although Sam didn't advocate fighting, he wasn't going to lecture Tom. He grimaced; no need to guess what Molly's reaction would be when she saw her son's swollen face.

His wife took one look at Tom, covered her mouth and promptly exploded with questions. “Are you all right, Tom? How's your eye? Who started the fight?” She paused for breath. “What's the matter with you?” she cried, then turned disgustedly to Sam, as if he was somehow personally responsible for the fight.

“Molly—”

“Stay out of this, Sam. How could you have stood by and let this happen?” she snapped. “I saw you—standing there, encouraging him.” Whirling back around, she caught Tom's chin and angled his head upward, none too gently. “Let me see that eye.” She gasped when she saw how swollen it was and glared again at Sam.

“I'm ashamed of you, Thomas. Ashamed.”

“Ah, Mom. Sam's cool about it. Why can't you be?”

Molly tossed Sam a look that could have turned a man to stone. She steered both boys toward the car and left Sam to follow or remain at the festival and find his own way home.

He had the feeling this evening wouldn't be ending the way he'd planned—making love to his wife. At the rate things were going he'd be lucky if she so much as kissed him good-night.

 

After the doctor confirmed what Molly already knew, she realized the next step was to tell Sam. She'd planned to do it the night of the Harvest Moon Festival, but then everything had gone so wrong. First Clay's disappearance, followed by Tom's fistfight. Molly had been furious with Sam, claiming it was his influence on her son that had induced Tom to settle a disagreement with his fists. His eye had swollen so badly that by the time they arrived home he could no longer see out of it.

Molly hated violence. Every time she looked at Tom's poor eye, she had to resist the urge to weep. She'd cried that night, and her tears had come as a shock—but this had happened with her first two pregnancies, as well. The minute she was pregnant, her emotions seemed to go askew, and she found herself weeping at the most inappropriate times. Television commercials for greeting cards and dog food. Movies. Even when she won at radio bingo. It was a wonder her husband hadn't already guessed, but experience told her men were obtuse about these things.

Matters being what they were the night of the festival, Molly couldn't very well announce she was pregnant. Nor on the days that followed. Troubles were said to come in threes, and they certainly did with them.

First Sam's truck broke down and he learned he needed a new transmission. While he was able to do the repair work himself, the parts came to more than a thousand dollars. Money they could ill afford, but Sam needed the truck.

Then the roof of the house sprang a huge leak, ruining the ceiling over Clay's bedroom. Sam had to climb onto the steeply pitched roof in the middle of a horrendous downpour. The plastic tarp was a stopgap measure. The whole thing needed to be replaced, and the job couldn't be delayed much longer. The work they'd done earlier in the year had only been a temporary fix.

“I'll go into town and see about the price of shingles,” Sam had said when he climbed down from the roof, drenched to the skin.

It went without saying that a new roof wouldn't be cheap. Shivering with cold, he'd showered, then sat at the kitchen table hugging a cup of coffee while he went over their finances. So
that
wasn't the time to tell him she was pregnant.

Finally, with all the rain, it seemed unlikely their well would go dry—but that was what happened the following week. Sam looked like he'd been punched in the gut when he learned the price of having a new well dug. Again, this wasn't something they could put off.

Molly simply didn't have the heart to add to his troubles by telling him about the pregnancy. She calculated the costs, and with doctor's fees and hospital estimates, having this baby would cost several thousand dollars. Not including baby furniture, clothes and supplies. So Molly kept the news to herself, struggling to hide her morning sickness and lack of appetite. Her emotions were something else entirely. Sam assumed her mood swings were due to financial worries, and she let him believe it.

Ginny was the one who guessed first.

“Sam doesn't know,” Molly told her neighbor over hot chocolate the first week of November.