Winter's Edge

  Instead she took a small, ladylike sip of it and wondered absently if among her myriad other faults she had been a drunk as well. She took a second, larger sip and leaned back further into the protective recesses of the chair to watch her family and friends.

  Her participation was not missed. Willy, Patrick and Lisa were deeply involved in a discussion of horse breeding, a subject as foreign to her as mountain climbing. Though of course, she thought ruefully, she could very well have dabbled in both. She was the first one to notice the arrival of another guest, walking quietly along the stone-floored hallway. He was above medium height, though shorter than the lanky Patrick, with curly brown hair and a quiet intensity about his eyes. He looked handsome, shy, and out of place, and quite friendly in a quiet, gentle way, so far removed from the tightly leashed violence she sensed in her husband. She suddenly felt a little more optimistic. Maybe she'd finally found an ally among all these enemies.

  "Hello, there." He cleared his throat at the door and they turned to greet him with enthusiasm.

  "Toby!" Patrick's sudden, friendly grin was a revelation. "We were just discussing Arab's points. We'll forgive you for being late if you can clear something up."

  Molly stared at Patrick, shocked into momentary silence. Remembering, almost remembering, with the sight of that sudden, devastating smile…

  And then Toby stepped between them, and his eyes were warm and sympathetic. "How are you, Molly? We missed you."

  The others were staring at him with silent disapproval, as if they suddenly discovered they had a traitor in their midst, but Toby didn't seem to notice. For the first time someone seemed sincerely glad to have her back, and Molly's eyes threatened to fill with those unwanted tears again.

  "Thank you, Toby," she said softly, smiling up at him.

  "Let's go in to dinner," Patrick said abruptly, breaking the moment. He took Lisa's silk-clad arm and led her toward the dining room. "I could eat a horse. Next time I invite you for dinner you come on time, boy," he said with mock seriousness, and Toby laughed.

  "I was held up, Pat," he said, following Willy's beefy form. "Miss Molly's just about to foal and I didn't know whether I dared come at all."

  By the time Molly entered the dining room she noticed with a grimace that Lisa had taken the traditional seat for the woman of the household, at the foot of the table opposite Patrick, and she was relegated to a seat next to Willy. She sank down with sullen grace, wondering once more what she could have possibly done to have turned her family and friends against her. And what further insults would she have to bear while she remained a prisoner in this house. At least there was Toby, looking across at her with undisguised admiration. She tried to concentrate on that, shutting out the sound of Lisa's arch laughter as she flirted with Patrick.

  "Molly, darling." Lisa turned to her in a coaxing voice. "Pat says you want to do some clothes shopping. I'd be delighted to come with you, give you a few pointers on style." Her expression told Molly that she badly needed all the help she could get.

  "No, thank you, Lisa." She managed to control the faintly homicidal urge that was building up in her. "Mrs. Morse will come with me—I wouldn't think of bothering you."

  "But darling, it's no bother," she protested prettily. "Remember what fun we had, picking all your other clothes? I've always helped you choose; you know I love to do it"

  So she had Lisa to thank for that closet full of unsuitable clothes, Molly thought. And I bet she did it on purpose. "No, I don't think so, Lisa. I prefer to choose my own clothes." Her voice was cool and firm, and there was nothing Lisa could do but shrug her elegant shoulders and exchange a look with Patrick as if to say, what can I do?

  Toby tried to smooth over the moment of tension by expressing a sudden interest in the weather, but Molly had finally had enough of the strained atmosphere and subtle sniping. Of the secrets that no one was supposed to mention. "Tell me, Lisa," she said in a casual voice, flashing her as false a smile as she'd been given. "When is it that you and Patrick plan to marry?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Lisa demanded in frosty tones.

  Molly took a bite out of the rich chocolate cake Mrs. Morse had provided for dessert, revelling in the shocked expressions of all those around the table. She looked up with innocent eyes. "I just thought it would be easier if I knew what your schedule was. Your husband's been dead…how long? I think I was told it was five weeks, is that right? And I gather you've both been planning this for years, so I'd hate to make you drag out any role-playing as a grieving widow." Molly's eyes drifted down Lisa's seductive apparel with a faint smile. "Perhaps you could persuade my husband to get an apartment somewhere while we wait for the divorce to go through. I wouldn't want to cramp your style, and you are so good at persuading my husband."

  "Get out of here," Patrick said quietly. Molly turned her blandly innocent smile in his direction, wanting to lash out and hurt him.

  "But why are you so mad, darling?" She mimicked Lisa's tone of voice perfectly. "You shouldn't let the fact that her husband's barely cold in the ground get in the way of your plans. After all, you only married me because you couldn't have her. And now you've got her. Happy happy, joy joy." She rose and stalked out of the room, anger finally taking control. She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him coming after her. Stifling a sudden, panic-stricken desire to run and lock herself in that sybaritic room, she turned at the top of the stairs and waited for him with spurious calm.

  He caught her wrist in a grip that was almost painful, his blue eyes dark with anger. "What the hell did you mean by that little scene in there?" he demanded.

  "Isn't it true?" she asked quietly. "Isn't every word I said true?"

  "You have no right to criticize anybody. Not when you're dealing with gossip and suppositions and half-truths," he said in a furious undertone. "I didn't run off in the middle of the night, I didn't set fire to the east barn and kill three horses, I didn't crack old Ben on the head and leave him bleeding in the middle of the yard. I wasn't found unconscious with a murdered man beside me."

  Molly felt sick and shaken. "And you're saying I did these things?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  His voice came towards her, cold and distant with what she now knew was a justifiable rage. "No one else could have. Either you or the man you ran away with. Half our breeding stock went in that fire. Have you ever seen a bam fire, Molly? Do you know what it's like, listening to the screams of the horses, smelling the charred flesh, knowing there's nothing you can do to save them?"

  She shook her head and tried to pull away, but he was inexorable.

  "The house nearly went too. Did you know that? Not that you'd care. You're just a spoiled, vicious child who lashes out and destroys without thinking when she doesn't get her own way!"

  "And what was my own way?" she demanded, fighting to hold on to her self-control.

  He shook his head in disgust. "You never told me," he said, quiet now. "Stay out of my path, Molly. If you come down for dinner again you'd better by God be polite or I swear I'll break your pretty little neck."

  She stood alone on the landing, unmoving, for long minutes after he'd left her to return to his guests. She glanced down at her hand as it rested on the railing, and she realized she was clutching it tightly.

  He said she'd hit Ben Morse over the head and left him bleeding. Surely Mrs. Morse couldn't believe her capable of such a thing and still be as friendly to her? Not everyone believed her to be such a monster, including one of the people she'd supposedly hurt the most.

  Damn Patrick and his accusations, accusations she couldn't refute. She stared after him, shaking with fury and defiance, when a stray thought entered her mind. A pretty little neck, he'd said. One he wanted to break.

  Had he been the one? Had he driven her from this place, then followed her, murdered the man she was with and then bashed her over the head, hoping to have killed her?

  And if he had, what was to stop him from trying it again?

  Why did he want her
there? Why couldn't he just let her leave, start a new life with the faint shreds of her memory? What in God's name did he want from her?

  And what did she want from him?

  Chapter Six

  « ^ »

  The sickness started the next morning. She woke up at the crack of dawn, a sudden churning in her stomach. She barely made it to the bathroom in time before she was thoroughly and violently sick. And as soon as the first spasm passed a second one came on, and then a third.

  When it finally passed she was weak and shaken, and it took every last remaining ounce of energy to crawl back into bed and lie there, shivering. She had never felt so horribly, desperately ill in her entire life, and she wondered whether it could have been food poisoning. With her current run of luck it could have descended on her and left the others, including Lisa Canning, in perfect health.

  She was just being paranoid—Mrs. Morse seemed like a careful and excellent cook. No, it must be some virus, brought on by her recent hospitalization. Maybe just an accumulation of stress. It would pass soon enough.

  It was almost an hour before she felt able to climb out of bed, and she took a long, slow time to get dressed and washed and make her shaky way downstairs. Mrs. Morse took one look at her and clucked sympathetically.

  "You don't look at all well, Molly, my dear," she said as she hustled her over to the seat by the blazing fire and wrapped an afghan around her. "It's not a fit day out for man nor beast, so it's just as well. Patrick said you wanted to go shopping but I think we'd better put it off for the time being. I'll make you some mint tea with honey and see how that makes you feel." She clucked over her like a mother hen, and Molly slowly began to relax. It was a rare, comfortable feeling, being cared for and fussed over, especially after Patrick's accusations of the night before.

  "It's just some sort of stomach virus," she said nonchalantly. "I'm already feeling better—I'd like to go shopping, really! " She felt like a child begging for a treat. The thought of spending another day cooped up in that house with its atmosphere of brooding guilt was enough to make her desperate.

  "We'll see," Mrs. Morse said, bustling around. "I'm going to make you some nice, nourishing oatmeal and then we'll see how you feel. Nothing like oatmeal for an upset stomach!"

  Three hours later they were on the road, and whether it was from oatmeal, natural causes or sheer willpower, Molly was feeling fine.

  "All right, all right," Mrs. Morse had finally acquiesced. "Patrick and Ben won't be in to lunch today—they're busy down at the lower barn. So we might as well take off right now. You'll have to give me a hand with dinner, mind you, if I'm to spend the afternoon gallivanting around."

  At the sound of Ben's name she paused, suddenly stricken. "Mrs. Morse?" she said in a hesitant voice.

  "What is it, lovey?"

  "Do you believe I did what they say I did? Do you think I hit your husband over the head and left him bleeding on the ground?" She held her breath, half afraid of the answer.

  Mrs. Morse shook her head. "You've been accused of a lot of things this past year. Some of them you told me about yourself, bragging. But I can't believe you would have changed so much you would have hurt my Ben. Neither does he. He doesn't know who sneaked up behind him and hit him over the head, but he knows it wasn't you."

  "Thank God," Molly breathed. "But who could it have been? Were there any strangers around here?"

  "Just the man you ran away with."

  The words hung in the air between them. "So I am responsible," she said in a low voice.

  "No, dearie. You got in with a bad crowd. You were unhappy, and you didn't use your best judgment. But that's in the past. Ben doesn't hold a grudge, and neither do I."

  Molly looked at her, stricken. "I'll find out what really happened," she said. "Sooner or later I'll remember."

  "Of course you will, dearie. In the meantime, we have some shopping to do. Nothing like a little shopping to cheer a body up."

  Molly rose, some of her earlier enthusiasm vanished. "I forgot. How am I going to get money?"

  "What do you need money for, with all those credit cards?" Mrs. Morse demanded. "Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if you had money in your wallet. You always forget that you have any."

  "I don't know where my wallet is," she admitted.

  Mrs. Morse had the grace to look abashed. "That's right—Patrick has it in the office. Since he told me it was all right to take you shopping I'm sure he'd expect me to give it to you. You just wait a moment and I'll go fetch it."

  Molly had grave doubts where Patrick had any such expectations, but she accepted the calfskin wallet with carefully concealed gratitude. Mrs. Morse was right about the credit cards and the money. If she wanted to escape from there she wouldn't have to worry about finances. She had it all in her hand, along with her driver's license.

  Putting the wallet in the hip pocket of her jeans, she strode out of the room. Right then she had no intention of leaving. Not with so many questions left unanswered. Why didn't anyone know who George Andrews was? Why didn't they know for sure who hit Ben? Who killed the man in the car with her? And why in God's name was all this happening?

  She was going to find out the truth if it killed her. And she had another motive as well. Lisa Canning wasn't going to have her way without a fight. Molly had every intention of staying long enough to put a stop to that relationship, finalize the divorce, and then be on her merry little way.

  Somehow the idea didn't warm her in the slightest.

  The day in New Hope was a complete success. They had lunch in an elegant little French restaurant just opened for the season, dining sumptuously on the rich French food despite Mrs. Morse's warning glance. And then they went on a buying spree, jeans and khakis, cotton sweaters and denim shirts, leather boots, a tweed jacket, flannel nightgowns and running shoes. Mrs. Morse looked scandalized at her extravagance in an amused sort of way, and when Molly finally finished she contented herself with the comment that she didn't do things by half measures.

  "Though I must say, Molly, that these clothes are much better suited to you than the ones that Mrs. Canning had you buy. I just hope you don't go through these as fast."

  "I don't plan to," she said from over the tower of packages that surrounded them in the front seat and completely filled the back of the van. "I expect these will last me for a long, long time."

  "Well, that's nice. And Patrick will just love the sweater you bought for him, I know he will."

  Once more Molly was filled with misgivings. "Do you really think so?" she asked anxiously, her cheerfulness fading. The thick blue cotton sweater would match his cold eyes perfectly, and yet Molly doubted he had any desire to accept presents from her. Maybe she'd just put it away in a drawer until he had a birthday or something. Assuming she was going to be around for his birthday. Otherwise she could just give it to him as a divorce present. For some reason she doubted the thought would amuse him.

  She was putting her new clothes away in the ugly dresser when a shadow fell across the doorway. She looked up, into the scowling face of her handsome husband.

  "I thought you should have these while you're here," he said abruptly, tossing a small box onto the bed. "Despite your insistence that you'd never wear them, they are yours."

  She knew what she'd find in that small, ivory box. Her wedding and engagement rings lay nestled against gray velvet. Neither of them struck any chord in her memory, the plain gold band nor the large sapphire in the old-fashioned setting. She slipped them on her ring finger, noting helplessly the perfect fit. Circumstances seemed determined to make her accept what her mind still found unacceptable. She was, it seemed, the selfish and spoiled wife of a brooding and very angry man. It was useless to waste any more time denying it.

  She looked up at him, but there was no reading the expression on his face. "Why did I decide to take them off?" she asked. "Did I leave them behind when I left?"

  "You never wore them."

  He'd managed to shock her. "Why not?"


  "You can cut the innocent surprise, Molly. You know perfectly well you threw them back at me the morning after we were married."

  "You were that bad in bed?" she asked lightly.

  He stared at her, an odd expression in his eyes. "You must have thought so," was all he said, turning on his heel to leave her.

  She watched him go, wishing there was some way she could interpret that odd expression on his face. Another mystery, among too many mysteries.

  She changed into a pair of khakis and a navy cotton sweater before making her way down to the kitchen. She was in the midst of peeling potatoes, temporarily alone in the vast, comfortable room, when Patrick reappeared. He looked at her, seemed about to beat a hasty retreat, and then obviously thought better of it. It appeared her husband was no more a coward than she was.

  He moved into the room with that undeniable grace and leaned against the counter, a few feet away from her. "I see you decided to wear your rings," he said in that husky voice which she found so inexplicably attractive. Unfortunately she found everything about the man inexplicably attractive, from his lean, austere face to his long, muscular legs. Everything, that is, except his attitude toward his wife.

  She nodded, concentrating fiercely on the potato in her hand. She felt suddenly nervous and tongue-tied with him so close, and she wondered whether that reticence was a normal part of her behavior.

  Apparently not, she thought. "You've changed." he said suddenly, and she could feel those bright blue eyes on her, sense their puzzlement.

  "Have I?" Her voice was carefully light. "I wouldn't know." She looked up at him with all the courage she could muster. "You know, I really don't remember what I was like before. I can't remember a thing."

  "Maybe you can't," he said enigmatically, moving closer to the table. "Or else you're a damned good actress." He leaned across her, his body brushing against hers just slightly as he turned on the lamp. "But then, you always were good at covering things up."