Montana (34 page)

With this realization came a renewed sense of guilt. Indirectly
he
was responsible for putting her in danger. He'd been the one who taught her to read. Lovely, generous Pearl had been like a child, tasting life for the first time, soaking up everything she learned, each sound, each new word. Her joy had been his own.

Who would have guessed this newly acquired skill would get her killed? Russell was ninety-nine percent sure that was what had happened. She'd read something she shouldn't have and gotten caught. Or perhaps she'd inadvertently let the information slip. Whichever, it had cost Pearl her life.

He'd never be the same without her. He wasn't sure he could continue living the way he had before he loved her. Once this was over he didn't think he could stay in Sweetgrass.

Rubbing his eyes, he studied the paper one last time, then tucked it into a file, which he locked inside the cabinet.

He turned off the light as he left the office and started for the parking lot. The cold was like a physical shock when he stepped outside. Snow was predicted that night.

Climbing into his car, he warmed up the engine and headed home. On impulse he drove past Pearl's house. New renters had moved in a month earlier, apparently unaware or unconcerned that a murder had taken place there.

He stopped off at the minimart and bought himself a sandwich, then drove home and ate it in front of the television while he watched CNN.

“I'm closer,” he whispered to Pearl before he got into bed that night. “It won't be long now. I'll know why. You won't have died in vain, my love. Whoever killed you will pay. Whatever you found out—he'll answer for it.”

This was his promise, and he fully intended to keep it.

 

The alarm buzzed in Molly's ear, and blindly stretching out one arm, she fumbled with the knob until the irritating sound ceased. Not wanting to leave the warm comfort of the bed, she cuddled close to Sam and absorbed his body heat for a few extra moments before quietly getting up. Sam had been in such a bad mood since his injury, extra sleep could only do him good.

It was a week ago that he'd spoken to Sheriff Maynard. Because Sam had been unable to name any of the men and because the sheriff had found no concrete evidence, there was little hope the cattle would be recovered. Since then Sam had been listless and cranky. She knew he was physically and emotionally drained. Although Doc Shaver had insisted he remain in bed for at least two days, Sam had simply refused. Molly had done her best, but the man defined stubbornness.

They didn't discuss the loan payment again. Really, what was there to say? Sam couldn't make the money appear out of thin air, and she was no magician, either. And so they didn't speak of it.

Some nights the tension in the house was so oppressive, Molly wanted to shriek. The boys had been restless and ill-tempered, too.

“It snowed!” Clay yelled as he flew down the stairs for breakfast. He said it as though no one else had noticed a thing.

Molly smiled at his enthusiasm, pleased to hear something other than whining or complaints.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” she said, gazing out the kitchen window. The sun rose over the horizon, casting a pinkish glow on the white perfection.

“It's stupid,” Tom said. He'd followed his younger brother down the stairs. Molly set a plate of hotcakes in the middle of the table and Tom helped himself. He poured on enough syrup for the pancakes to float.

“Hey,” Clay protested, jerking the plastic container out of his brother's hand. “I want some, too.”

A tug of war ensued, and soon the two boys were at each other's throats. Molly quickly broke it up, but the bickering continued until the boys grabbed their schoolbags and headed out the door to meet the bus.

Still angry, Clay stood in the open doorway and glared at Molly as though the fight with his brother was all her fault. “I hate Montana.”

Molly sighed and shook her head. “Clay, that isn't true and you know it.”

“I don't care if we lose this stupid ranch. The only thing I like is Bullwinkle. I want to move back to California.” Having said that, he ran out, slamming the door.

Defeated, Molly slumped into the chair and raised her hands to her face. The boys' constant quarreling depleted her energy. It didn't help that Sam had been sullen and pessimistic all week.

“What was that about?” Sam asked. She hadn't heard him come into the kitchen.

Whenever Molly looked at the bandage on his head, she experienced a twinge of pain herself. The head wound was only a small part of what he'd suffered. For reasons as yet unclear to Molly, he blamed himself for the loss of the cattle. He'd never come right out and said so, but she hadn't lived with him and loved him all these months without being able to figure that out.

“The boys got into a fight,” she explained. “No one's in a good mood.”

“Maybe Clay can have his wish,” Sam said without emotion.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it isn't too late for you and the boys to move back to California.”

Her heart seemed to lurch to a sudden stop. He had to be joking, but one look told Molly he was serious.

“Is that what you want?” she asked, barely able to say the words.

He shrugged as if her returning to California or not was of little consequence to him.

“That's a perfectly rotten thing to say, Sam Dakota! It's obvious that you don't understand what marriage really means. I committed myself to you when I said my vows. No ands, ifs or buts. Love isn't just a feeling. It isn't hormones, either. It's commitment, standing beside each other, facing problems together. It's holding on to what's really important.” When she finished, her eyes had filled with tears.

“To my way of thinking, you got the short end of the stick in this marriage,” he said.

“I could say the same thing about you. I came into this relationship with two children and a complete set of emotional baggage. But we're married now, and no one's keeping score of who got the short end of what stick—or anything else!”

He turned his back and walked out of the kitchen.

Molly heard the radio come on and knew he'd settled down in the living room. He'd gone there in order to avoid her. Well, she wouldn't
force
him to speak to his own wife!

Unable to stay in the house, Molly dressed, fighting back tears and nausea, and drove to Ginny's place. The older woman stepped onto the porch when she heard Molly's car.

“More troubles?” Ginny called out, concern evident on her face.

Molly shook her head. “I came for coffee and a few words of encouragement.”

“Encouragement I got, but my coffee tastes like cow piss.” She chuckled. “That's what Walt used to tell me, but you know he had more than his share of my coffee and he wasn't too proud to down a slice or two of my apple pie while he was at it.”

Molly smiled at the reference to her grandfather. She missed Gramps more than ever. He'd always been there for her; he'd always been willing to look at a problem straight on. She understood now how much courage that took. And he'd had a way of coming up with solutions….

“It's a bit early in the day for pie,” Molly said, “but I'll gladly accept a cup of that coffee.”

“Great.” Ginny led the way into the house.

The warm homey kitchen was where Ginny and Fred spent most of their time. The radio rested on the kitchen counter, and a stack of mail and books and magazines took up at least half the table, along with a deck of cards and an old cribbage board.

“Walt and me used to play cribbage and two-handed pinochle now and again,” Ginny explained. “Not often, just enough for me to think of him every time I look at that old board. Can't seem to bring myself to put it away. Sometimes Fred and I play a bit in the evenings, but it's not the same….”

Molly touched the older woman's hand. “I miss him, too.”

Ginny sniffled and dabbed at her nose with her hankie. “How's Sam this fine morning?”

Molly looked away, not meeting Ginny's eyes. “He…he suggested I move back to California with the kids.”

“You didn't believe him, did you?”

Molly didn't know what to believe any longer.

“What that husband of yours needs is someone to read him the riot act,” Ginny said, frowning darkly. “If he feels sorry for himself now, just wait till I get through with him. He should be shot for saying something like that.”

“Someone already tried,” Molly reminded her.

“From the way Sam's acting, you'd almost think he's disappointed the guy's aim was off.”

Molly held on to her mug with both hands and stared into the steaming coffee. “He blames himself for what happened.”

“That's ridiculous. It could've been my herd just as easily.”

Molly pushed her hair off her forehead. “I don't know what we're going to do, and Sam refuses to talk about it. Now it seems as if he's given up and wants out of the marriage.”

“Don't you take him seriously,” Ginny chastised. “Not for a moment. Maybe you should tell him about the baby now. It'd give him something else to think about.”

“No.” Molly was adamant about that. “If he doesn't love me enough to ride out the troubled times, then a baby isn't going to change things.” Thinking about the many difficult times her grandparents had faced, Molly gripped the cameo dangling from the gold chain. Somehow it helped her feel closer to them both.

“That cameo's lovely,” Ginny said. “Have you ever thought about selling it?”

“No.” Molly was horrified Ginny would even suggest such a thing.

“It might be valuable. When was the last time you had it appraised?”

Appraised? Molly had never even given appraisal a thought. She'd always assumed its commercial value wasn't more than a couple of hundred dollars. The sentimental value, however, made it priceless.

“I seem to remember Walt telling me once it was a collector's piece,” Ginny murmured. “I know how you feel about it, but it wouldn't hurt to have a jeweler take a look.”

Molly held the cameo more tightly as she recalled the pawnbroker's interest. She'd figured it was because he considered the cameo so unusual, not because of its monetary value.

Over the past few days she'd given ample thought to what assets they could sell to raise money. One problem was the fact that they had so little time. As for selling equipment or one of their vehicles, no one in Sweetgrass had money to spare or to spend. Her car, while paid for, wasn't worth five grand, and Sam's pickup was pretty old. Besides, he needed it on the ranch. Walt's old truck was worthless, and everything else they owned was mortgaged to the hilt.

“You're right,” Molly said, finding a new resolve. “It wouldn't hurt to have a jeweler look at it.”

“You want me to come along? On our way we can stop off at your place and I can beat the crap out of Sam. If he wants to feel sorry for himself, then I'll be sure and give him plenty of reason.”

Molly laughed, for probably the first time in a week. “Oh, Ginny,” she said, “I'm so glad we're friends.” Impulsively she hugged the older woman. “But I can deal with Sam.”

Immeasurably cheered, Molly returned home, hoping Sam's mood had improved.

“Sam,” she called as she walked into the kitchen.

Silence.

“Sam?” She checked the living room and glanced into the bedroom, thinking he might have gone back to bed for a nap.

He was as familiar with the doctor's orders as she was—in bed for two days, and then quiet and rest for the following week. She knew he was feeling better, but not well enough to leave the house.

Checking outside, she noticed that his truck was missing.

“Sam Dakota, where did you go?” Her instinctive reaction was anger that he'd defied the doctor's orders.

She searched for a note in the kitchen and found none.

Then she noticed that the hall-closet door was ajar, and she understood. That was where they stored the suitcases. She crossed again to the bedroom door, looked in and noticed that each one of the drawers on his side of the dresser had been left open.

Molly's legs felt like they were about to give out on her. She clutched the door frame with both hands as she took it all in.

Sam had left her. Unable to deal with their problems, he'd packed his bags and driven off. Without even saying goodbye.

P
aul Harden, the jeweler, gently turned the cameo over in the palm of his hand. “Ginny was right. This piece is a rare collector's item. I couldn't begin to give you an accurate appraisal without making a couple of phone calls first.”

“Could you guess?” Molly urged. “Maybe…a thousand?” she asked, hardly daring to believe in the possibility.

Unable to deal with Sam's abandonment, she'd driven into town. With all the problems crashing down around her shoulders, she'd decided to deal with the most pressing one first—the loan payment. She might be able to talk Mr. Burns into accepting a partial payment until they could get back on their feet financially and regroup after the loss of the herd.

“Much more than that. I'd say it was closer to five or six.”

“Five or six thousand!” Molly's voice echoed in her ears, and she felt slightly dizzy. “You're not joking, are you?”

“Not about something like this,” Paul told her. He was a jovial man in his early sixties with dark brown eyes that twinkled when he laughed. He'd sold Molly and Sam their wedding bands the day before the ceremony, and as a favor to Gramps had sized them overnight.

“Oh, my…”

“Are you interested in selling?” he asked.

“I…I don't know. I mean, no, I don't want to, but I imagine I'm not going to have any choice.”

Paul frowned. “I swear Burns is squeezing every rancher in the area. If you want, I'll make a few calls and ask around, see what I can do to get you the best price.”

“I'd appreciate it.” Molly couldn't believe her good fortune. Once again, even after his death, Gramps had supplied the solution to her troubles. But giving up the cameo would be so very difficult. She'd worn it all these years and it held such meaning for her.

“Give me a call in the next couple of days,” Paul said, “and I'll let you know what I've found out.”

Molly nodded, pinching her lips to keep from crying. She'd rather sell her right arm than her grandmother's cameo, but if worse came to worst, there'd be no help for it.

“Don't worry,” Paul said, patting her hand. “These things often have a way of working out for the best.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, and turned away before he saw the tears in her eyes.

This wasn't easy for Molly, but it was either take matters into her own hands or become an emotional casualty. Since Sam had seen fit to abandon her, she had no choice but to do what she could to secure the future for herself and her children. If that meant selling a family heirloom, then so be it.

Molly arrived home thirty minutes before the boys were due back from school. She dreaded telling them Sam was gone. But it wasn't something she'd be able to hide. Tom, especially, would take the news hard.

From past experience she knew her children would look to her for their emotional cues. If she was strong and brave, they would be, too. For their sake, as well as her own, Molly prayed she'd be able to pull it off. While the breakup of her first marriage had devastated her, it didn't compare to the numbed sense of disbelief she felt now.

The phone rang, and Molly stared at it, not sure if she should answer or not. Part of her wanted it to be Sam; at the same time she didn't know if she could talk to him.

She answered on the third ring.

“This is Patrick Sparks from the Butte Rodeo returning Mr. Dakota's phone call.”

Molly didn't understand why Sam would be calling Butte. “I'm sorry, he isn't here.”

“Would you take a message and let him know I'm sorry I wasn't here to talk to him personally? Naturally I've heard of Sam.” He paused and laughed briefly. “Best damn bull rider I've ever had the privilege to watch. I'd heard he was forced into retirement some years ago—but if he wants to ride again, we'd be more than happy to have him in Butte. In fact, we'd consider it an honor.”

“Sam called you?” Molly asked, barely able to get the question out.

“Yes. Early this morning. Unfortunately I was out of the office at the time. I would've enjoyed talking to a rodeo legend like Sam Dakota.”

“Are…there any other rodeos going on now?” Molly asked, thinking quickly.

“The season's winding down, but Missoula's putting on a big one this weekend.”

“Thank you,” Molly said. “Thank you so much.”

Racing into the bedroom, she yanked the top drawer on Sam's side of the dresser all the way open. Sure enough, his clothes were there; only the top layer of T-shirts and briefs was missing. Molly berated herself for jumping to conclusions, for assuming the worst. For not trusting Sam. He hadn't left her at all! He'd packed up and gone to compete in a rodeo, hoping to collect the prize money.

Her husband was risking his life for her and the boys in order to make the payment on the ranch.

“Oh, Sam,” she whispered, relieved and furious with him at once. “You're an idiot.” What he didn't know was that this wasn't necessary, not any longer. She could sell the cameo.
Would
sell it.

The back door opened and the boys wandered in, their faces red from the cold and the long trek down the driveway.

“Each of you, pack an overnight bag,” she instructed them, clapping her hands to get them moving.

“Are we going somewhere?” Tom asked, eyes wide with surprise.

“To the rodeo,” she said, and because the relief overwhelmed her, she cupped his cold face between her hands and kissed both his cheeks. “First I'm going to phone Ginny—ask if Fred can stop by here to see to the horses and dogs….”

“Rodeo?” Tom ardently scrubbed her kiss from his cheeks. “Mom, have you lost it?”

Laughing and crying at the same time, she nodded. “No. I've
found
it. Found something wonderful.”

“What?”

“Love,” she whispered, then repeated. “Love.”

 

It amazed Sam that anyone remembered him. He certainly didn't feel entitled to the hero's welcome he'd received when he paid his entry fee. All he cared about was the purse, a hefty five grand, which was exactly the amount needed to make the first payment.

He was the last entrant, the last man to ride. Exactly eight seconds—that was how long he needed to stay on. Eight seconds to win five thousand dollars. He stared down into the chute at the snorting bull, and his blood fired to life. It'd been a long time, and the adrenaline surged through his system. He was ready. He missed the old life—but not enough to trade it for what he had now. Sweetgrass was where he belonged. No, he belonged wherever Molly was, Molly and their family. She'd taught him that with her gentle love.

The bull snorted again, eager to be released from the constraining chute. In a couple of minutes Sam would ease his weight onto the beast's back and the door would open.

He was in top physical condition—strong, fit and agile. Working the ranch had done that for him. He'd recovered from his head injury; if he hadn't, the ride would have been a suicide mission, and he had no intention of dying. Nor did he intend to spend the remainder of his days crippled. He was a man with a lot of reasons to live. The time had come to start counting his blessings, instead of keeping tabs on what he'd lost.

Given the nod, Sam climbed over the top of the chute and settled himself on the bull's massive body. The animal's head reared back, and he slammed from side to side in a futile attempt to unseat his rider. The old boy would have eight seconds to do that once the chute door opened. From what Sam had seen so far, the bull was determined to give him a ride he'd feel all the way to his back molars.

Sam wrapped the bull rope around his hand. His blood roared in his ears, and he focused on the memory of Molly's face. The announcer's voice boomed over the public address system, and Sam heard his name and the cheers that followed. The other riders weren't the only ones who remembered him; apparently the audience did, too.

When the announcer finished, Sam gave the signal and the chute opened. The bull charged out of the pen, and Sam's right arm instinctively went up to maintain his balance.

Colors blurred as he was jerked and yanked and spun about. Yet despite the blurred images, he thought he saw Molly standing on the sidelines with the boys.

Here? How was it possible? He'd gone mad, Sam concluded. He'd tried to reach her at Ginny's and discovered she'd already left. Fred had promised to let her know, but Sam hadn't mentioned
which
rodeo for exactly this reason: he hadn't wanted Molly to come.

It felt as though every bone in his body had been jarred from its sockets before the buzzer finally went off. Spectators leaped to their feet and the applause was deafening. He'd done it. He'd stayed on the bull for eight seconds, the longest eight seconds of his life. He had the purse.

Soon Sam was behind the stands, out of the limelight. He felt weak enough to faint, but exhilaration kept him on his feet. His throat was parched; he accepted a drink of water and gulped it down. As he set the cup aside, he saw her.

Molly stood no more than five feet away. It hadn't been his imagination—she'd been there. She'd watched him ride, had screamed and cheered for him.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered, holding out his arms to her. His arms and his heart.

She seemed unsure which to do first: kiss him or give him the lecture of his life. He looked at his oldest son, but Tom shrugged as if to say Sam was on his own.

The lecture won. “Sam Dakota, how could you leave me like that and without so much as a note?” she demanded.

“Fred was supposed to tell you.” Unwilling to wait for her to come to him, he covered the distance separating them and gathered her in his arms. The feel of her filled his heart. He'd briefly feared that old life would tempt him once he was back; it hadn't happened. Instead, he'd realized something. The injury that ended his rodeo career had really been a gift, because it had brought him Molly and the boys. Neither fame nor glory could replace the contentment he'd felt since his marriage.

“I didn't talk to Fred—just Ginny.” Molly shook her head. “Oh, Sam, how could you have taken such a risk?” she whispered, sounding close to tears.

“That was easy, my love. I did it for us.”

“You could've been killed!” she cried, fighting back tears.

“I wasn't.”

“Or badly hurt.”

“I'm none the worse for wear.” He kissed the tip of her nose and she buried her face in his neck. Then he rubbed the side of his face against her hair, loving the fresh scent of it.

“Dad! Dad!” Clay tugged hard at his sleeve, and Sam placed his arm around the boy's shoulders. Clay tugged harder. “That man over there,” he said urgently. “He's got a broken shoelace.”

“He should be wearing cowboy boots like the rest of us,” Sam teased. For a moment he was amused by the things kids noticed. Then he made the connection—just as Clay said, “But he's got those combat boots, exactly like the guy who grabbed me.”

“Where?” Sam demanded, releasing Molly.

“Over there.” Clay pointed to a tall man dressed in fatigues who stood by the corral, talking to another man.

Sam recognized him immediately as one of the two unsavory characters who'd walked into Willie's the night Pearl was killed. The men she'd wanted to avoid.

Without hesitation Sam started across the yard, anger driving his steps. “Why don't we ask him about it right now?” he said between gritted teeth. He had every intention of finding out why a grown man would want to terrify a boy and his family.

“I'll get the authorities,” Molly said, and before Sam could assure her he wouldn't need anything other than his fists to get the answers he wanted, she was gone.

“We need to talk,” Sam said, interrupting the two men.

The first man barely glanced at him, but the second one stared back as though he'd seen a ghost. He recovered quickly, however, and asked, “What do we need to talk about?”

“My son.”

“I didn't know they let jailbirds like you—” As soon as Sam was within striking distance, the man attacked, hitting him square in the jaw with a powerful right hook.

Sam didn't see it coming and the punch caught him off balance and sent him sprawling to the ground. His jaw hurt, but not nearly as much as his pride. He half rose and hurled himself at the other man, hitting him just above the knees. The force made him topple backward, but Sam wasn't able to pin him down. Dust clogged the air as they rolled around in the dirt.

“Sam, Sam…” Molly's voice drifted toward him. He wanted to tell her to stand clear, but he dared not divert his attention.

“Give it to him, Lance,” the man's friend shouted.

Lance outweighed him by some pounds, and Sam was stiff and sore from the recent bull-ride. He guessed from Lance's technique that he'd been trained by the military.