The interview had gone poorly, and Sam wasn’t sure who to blame. The sheriff appeared to be suggesting that the entire episode with the fire was accidental when anyone with a lick of sense could tell it wasn’t. Even asking about the earlier incidents, he didn’t reveal any real interest. Nor had he bothered to write down pertinent details, other than what Sam had told him about finding the gas can.
The poisoned water hole could have resulted in disaster; so could the damaged windmill. The pasture near Custer Hills was without a running stream, and the windmill pumped drinking water for the herd. Which was no small thing. Luckily Sam had been able to repair it quickly. He didn’t want to consider what would have happened if he hadn’t discovered it when he did. There’d been too many incidents like this over the summer. Too many not to believe foul play wasn’t involved. The fact that there was already a buyer for the land on the off chance Molly wanted to sell made him even more suspicious.
The old man had been smarter than he realized in deeding Sam those five hundred acres. His section sat squarely in the middle of the property. Not until after the funeral did Russell Letson get the final papers to Sam, and only then did he realize what Walt had done. Molly could sell the land, if worse came to worst, but her two sides of the property would be cut off from each other unless his land was included in the sale. Come hell or high water, Sam wouldn’t relinquish those acres. In any event, he was prohibited from doing so by the terms of the agreement.
Setting the pitchfork aside, he left the barn and headed back to the house, fully expecting to get an earful from Molly. He wasn’t blind to the looks she’d sent him when they’d spoken to Sheriff Maynard. She hadn’t been pleased by his attitude. Well, he wasn’t going to apologize. The sheriff was equally at fault.
Halfway between the barn and the house, Sam paused. He stood in the middle of the yard and surveyed the grounds, and even in the waning light he saw that the grass was charred and black. He shuddered; he could only be grateful that this latest disaster had passed them by.
He’d purposely delayed going back into the house, giving Molly time to cool down before he showed his face. The burns on his hands still throbbed, his back ached, and he wanted to be with his wife.
When Gramps had first suggested the marriage, Sam had been interested. The promise of land and cattle was one hell of an inducement. Molly could have resembled one of Cinderella’s stepsisters and he still would’ve been tempted. What he hadn’t understood at the time was how damn much he’d enjoy married life.
Sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night with Molly lying at his side, he was overcome with a sense of humility. Much of his life had been hard, devoid of tenderness. He’d served time in prison, although he tried to push that memory to the farthest reaches of his mind. In the years since, he’d drifted from one town to the next. One job to the next, until one ranch had looked much like another.
Then he’d met Walter Wheaton, a sick old man about to lose everything. The rancher had offered him a job when no one else wanted him. As it turned out, they’d needed each other. While he’d gratefully accepted Walt’s proposal, Sam had suspected this would be the hardest he’d ever work for anyone, and he’d been right.
But he’d gained so much—a home, a wife, a family. His heart seemed to expand in his chest. He’d given up on love, readily admitting that he’d never understood it or experienced it. Until Molly…This was supposed to be a marriage of convenience, not of love. He and Molly had never said the word to each other, had never discussed how their feelings had changed. It didn’t matter. He knew they had.
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.”
&
nbsp; 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 s
o, 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.
Molly sighed and snuggled closer.
“Did you miss me, sweetheart?” he murmured, and gently nibbled at her ear.
Her immediate response gave him a world of hope. Rolling onto her back, Molly wound her arms around his neck. Then she did that thing with her tongue, tickling the hollow of his throat. Goose bumps spread down his arms and legs. “Oh, baby…” he whispered “I think we should talk, don’t you?”
Not answering, she clung to him.
“On second thought we can talk anytime.” He eased his leg between hers and was about to kiss her full on the lips when it happened.
The willing pliant woman in his arms went stiff, then bolted up and shoved him away. “Where have you been? Oh, God, you were with another woman! I can smell her all over you!”
Fourteen
Russell Letson’s heart stopped cold. He read the headlines again, certain there’d been some mistake. This couldn’t be real! The agony was as fierce as anything physical, perhaps more so.
The paper said that Pearl was dead.
He covered his eyes with one hand in a futile effort to force the fog of pain from his mind. He needed to think, to assimilate what the words said and what he could make himself believe, make himself accept.
Again he read the article, which took up half the front page of the regular Wednesday edition. The Sweetgrass Weekly rarely had a murder to write about. Even a murder without a body was big news. The door to Pearl’s house had been left open for several days, and when a neighbor had gone to investigate, she discovered the place had been ransacked. It was as though a tornado had been let loose inside, she’d said. Blood splattered the walls, and a deep crimson stain was found on the bed, leaking through to the mattress. So much blood. Dear God, had she suffered?