Montana by Debbie Macomber
“I…I don’t know what to think anymore,” Molly confessed.
“Hogwash. You married him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—” She’d married Daniel, too.
Ginny didn’t allow her to finish. “That man’s so crazy about you he can’t see straight. The minute you come into view his eyes follow you like a hawk watching a prairie rabbit. He’d no more seek out someone else than he’d court a rattlesnake.”
“But…” Molly hesitated. Ginny didn’t know all the details, and Molly couldn’t tell her. “He misled me about his past.” She inhaled a quavering breath and continued. “It’s true I told him this was a fresh start for us both, but I certainly expected him to tell me…certain things.”
“Certain things?”
Molly twisted the damp tissue in her hands and looked away. “Sam’s…got a prison record.”
“Oh, that. I know all about it. Walt told me,” Ginny surprised her by saying.
“Gramps knew?”
“Course he did. Do you think he’d let you marry any man without knowing everything there was to know about him first? You were his only kin.”
“But I assumed…I thought…”
Ginny rubbed her forehead as she mulled over this latest bit of information. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Sense?” Molly repeated.
“Sam not telling you. The boy was afraid. Figured if you knew he’d done time, you wouldn’t have married him. That doesn’t sound like a man who’d step out on his wife first chance he got, now does it?”
“Sure he wanted to marry me! Gramps offered him that land and those cattle, and—”
“Fiddlesticks. That land was incentive, all right, and probably got Sam to thinking about marriage, but that wasn’t the only reason he married you. He was interested in you right off—I could see it and so could Walt. Not having much time left, Walt did the only thing he could. He hurried the two of you along, is all.”
Molly desperately wanted to believe Sam loved her. These past weeks—before the night of the fire—had been the happiest of her adult life. The thought that it had all been a lie hurt more than anything she’d ever faced, including Gramps’s death.
Ginny took a long swallow of her drink. “Don’t be a fool, Molly Dakota, and make the same mistake as me. I loved your grandfather for longer than I care to admit. We could’ve enjoyed a few good years together, but we were both too stubborn and set in our ways to let the other know. That was the reason we bickered. We both knew the minute we stopped fighting we’d be making love, and it put the fear of God into us.” The older woman sniffed loudly, dabbing at her eyes. “Damn allergies,” she muttered and blew her nose.
“Oh, Ginny.”
“Trust him, Molly. Walt did, and he was the best judge of character I ever knew. I swear to you that you won’t be sorry.”
Ginny left soon afterward, and as Molly waved her off, she noted that Sam’s truck was back. He hadn’t told her where he was headed that afternoon, and she hadn’t asked. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms. He ignored her except for the most basic conversations about ranch or household matters, and she did the same with him.
Still standing in the back doorway, Molly saw Tom and Clay trudging down the long drive, with Clay’s half-grown dog trotting beside them; the school bus dropped them off at the end of the quarter-mile ranch road, where Bullwinkle faithfully waited for Clay. Molly had snacks ready and waiting. Both boys acted as if they were half-starved whenever they walked in the door after school.
“You and Sam still fighting?” Clay asked as he grabbed his lemonade and two chocolate-chip cookies.
“We aren’t fighting, exactly,” she murmured. She’d done her best to hide the tension between her and Sam from the children and was relieved that he’d done his own part to disguise it.
“Well, hurry up and forgive him, would you?” Tom said. “Sam’s about as much fun as fried liver and onions these days. How much does he have to suffer before you’ll forgive him?”
“Tom!” Molly couldn’t believe her son would ask such a question. “What’s between Sam and me is none of your business.”
“Is this what happens when people get married?” her youngest son wanted to know. “It’s great for a little while, and then you fight and everything changes?”
Difficult as it was to admit, her boys were right. This unpleasantness had gone on long enough. Ginny’s observations had hit home, and now her own children were saying essentially the same thing.
Running her fingers through her hair, Molly squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and headed out the back door.
“Where you going?” Clay called after her.
“Where do you think, stupid?” his brother taunted. “Leave them be, all right? And if Mom comes back with straw in her hair, don’t ask any questions.”
Molly turned to glare at her oldest son, but Tom only smiled and winked. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders and she grinned. At the moment a bit of straw in her hair appealed to her. She’d missed Sam. After a decade without lovemaking, it surprised her how easily she’d adjusted to the routine of married life.
Sam was in the barn cleaning tack and barely glanced up when she entered.
“I have something to ask you and I expect the full truth,” she announced.
Her statement was met with silence.
“All right?” she asked, feeling suddenly uncertain. It would’ve been easier if Sam had approached her, instead.
“Fine. Ask away,” he muttered.
“Were you or were you not with a woman the other night?”
“That depends on your definition of with.”
“I didn’t realize this was a technical question.” She crossed her arms defensively.
“If you’re asking if I slept with—as in had sex with—another woman, then the answer is a flat-out no.”
“Oh.”
“If you’re curious as to what I was doing, I’ll tell you. A lady asked for a ride home and I gave her one. She was grateful and hugged me, and I swear to you, Molly, that’s all it was. A hug, nothing more.”
The intensity of his look burned straight through to her heart. She wanted to believe him so very much.
“I’ve only loved one woman in my life,” he continued, methodically polishing the worn leather of her grandfather’s saddle. “And that’s you.”
Molly felt her chest tighten. She wanted it to be true, and while he’d shown her in a hundred ways that he cared, he’d never said the words. Before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I love you, too.”
Slowly Sam stood. “Then why are you all the way over there and I’m all the way over here?”
“Can we meet in the middle?”
He grinned for the first time. “You’re a stubborn woman, Molly Dakota.”
“I had a good teacher,” she said, thinking of Gramps.
They didn’t walk toward each other, they ran. Sam caught her about the waist and buried his face in the curve of her neck. She threw her arms around him and clung. And all her doubts fled.
“I’ve been so miserable,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“You?” He chuckled, but his amusement was abruptly cut off when his mouth covered hers.
They’d kissed countless times, but Molly couldn’t remember any kiss that had meant this much. It was passion, but it was more—giving, taking, holding, sharing. Trusting. They both gasped for breath when the kiss ended.
“Do you realize the torment I’ve been in the past few nights, sleeping beside you?” he whispered.
“You actually slept?”
“You’re joking, right?” He kissed her again—and stopped abruptly. “Listen, Molly, there’s something…” He hesitated.
“What?” she asked.
“There’s going to be trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“The woman I gave the ride to…”
“Yes?”
“It was Pearl Mitchell.”
The name blazed itself across Molly’s mind, and she pressed her forehead against his shirt. “Oh, God.”
No sooner had she said the words than she heard the sound of an approaching car.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Sam asked.
She shook her head.
Before they could make their way outside, the barn door burst open. Sheriff Maynard stood there, looking like an avenging angel.
“Sam Dakota, I’m taking you into town for questioning in the death of Pearl Mitchell.”
Fifteen
Sam had lost track of the hours he’d spent in the back room at the sheriff’s office. Four? Six? His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but the questions kept coming, some at shotgun speed, others with a slow nasal contempt and the assumption of guilt. His answer was the same to each and every one.
“I refuse to answer any questions until my attorney is present.”
According to Sheriff Maynard, he’d been unable to reach Russell Letson. Sam didn’t believe him for a second, but said nothing. And wouldn’t. Nor did he question the handcuffs, although he hadn’t been charged with any crime. It would do no good to demand his rights.
He’d been this route before and had learned the hard way that a uniform didn’t guarantee justice, fairness or truth. When he’d been arrested in the barroom brawl that led to his prison sentence, the investigating officer had to rephrase certain questions three or four times to get the answers he needed in order to arrest Sam. Fool that he was, Sam had trusted the man to be unbiased. As a result he’d ended up in jail. Yes, he’d been involved in the fight. Yes, he’d had a knife. Yes, he’d been drinking. Three yeses was all it took to put him behind bars that first time, and Sam had no intention of making a repeat appearance. Not when his life had finally taken a sharp turn for the better. He wasn’t going to mess that up.
The ranch was his future, as were Molly and the boys. They’d worked their way deep into his heart. A man didn’t walk away from his family, nor did he walk away from his responsibilities. That was a belief he’d shared with Walt. The old man had treated him like a son; he’d loved Sam enough to encourage him to marry Molly, his only granddaughter. And Sam had no intention of letting his friend down now or becoming a victim of circumstances.
“I demand to see my husband.”
He could hear Molly’s determined voice as the young deputy opened and closed the door. Despite the situation, Sam couldn’t keep from smiling. It did his heart good to know someone else was butting heads with Molly. He almost felt sorry for the clerk. His wife was a stubborn headstrong woman, which only made Sam love her more. Knowing she was here and on his side gave him the strength to endure another round of questioning, to listen in silence as the sheriff and his men detailed the “evidence” that pointed directly at Sam. Fortunately he was aware of their game plan. Instinct demanded that he argue his case, protest his innocence. But experience had taught him that his declaration would soon be used as “proof” with which to convict him.
An hour later the door opened a second time, and Russell Letson stepped inside. He took one look at the handcuffs on Sam’s wrists and demanded, “On what grounds are you holding my client?” His voice suggested Maynard had stepped so far over the line he was lucky not to get tossed into a cell himself.
“Dakota was the last known person to be with Pearl Mitchell.”
Russell snorted. “If that’s all you’ve got, then I suggest you release him now or become the defendant in a lengthy and very expensive lawsuit for unlawful detainment.”
Sam was beginning to believe he’d underestimated the attorney. Mild-mannered Letson was hell wearing shoes when it came to defending his clients. Sam wasn’t sure what had persuaded the other man to accept his defense, but he suspected Molly had something to do with it.
Sheriff Maynard’s face, double chin and all, was as red as a ripe tomato. Openmouthed, he stared at the attorney as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. The two were obviously familiar with one another, and they waged a silent battle of wills.
“Now just a minute…” Sheriff Maynard scanned the room as if he felt obliged to make a show in front of his deputies.
“You’ve gone too far this time,” Russell said, more calmly now. “Way too far. You know it, I know it, and so does everyone else in this room. You can stop here or we can pursue this issue in a court of law. The decision is yours.”
The two men squared off face-to-face before the sheriff growled something incomprehensible and backed away.
Sam stood up and stretched out his arms for the sheriff to unlock the handcuffs. Maynard did so with undisguised reluctance. When his hands were free, Sam rubbed the soreness out of his wrists. Exhilaration filled him. When he’d walked into this office, he’d been terrified that he might never be free again.
He nearly mowed down two men in his eagerness to get to Molly. She got quickly to her feet when he walked into the waiting area in front of the office. Her beautiful blue eyes met his, and the emotion in them was nearly his undoing.
Without speaking a word, they simply walked into each other’s arms. Sam’s eyes drifted shut as he wrapped his arms around her and felt her love as profoundly as anything he’d ever known. He gave an audible sigh. Molly was sunshine after a fierce storm. Light after dark. Summer after a harsh winter. His joy. His freedom. His love.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice trembling. Her fingers investigated his face, brushed back the hair from his brow.
“I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” He wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but he was hopeful. Thanks to Russell Letson.
Russell was at the counter completing some paperwork, and Sam hurried over to thank him. They spoke for a few minutes and exchanged handshakes. Afterward it seemed to him that when Russell saw Molly standing close to his side, a bit of sadness showed in his eyes, as though he envied them the love they shared. Mentally Sam shook his head; he was growing fanciful.
“I only did what was right,” Russell said as they prepared to leave. “I’m sorry it took so long for the message to reach me.” He looked slightly embarrassed when Molly stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Go home, you two, and be happy.”
“That’s what we intend to do,” Sam said, grinning at his wife. The problems hadn’t disappeared, and as soon as this crisis was over, there’d be another one, but for the moment nothing was more important than breathing in the fresh air of freedom.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Three, maybe four,” Molly said, and yawned. They’d both been up all night. In a couple of hours the ranch would come alive with activity and Sam would be needed to handle the affairs of the day. But for the next two hours, he planned to make love to his wife.
As soon as they arrived at the house, Molly led the way into their bedroom and didn’t bother to turn on the lights. In the dark they removed their clothes, and when Sam got into bed, he held his arms wide. She came to him, unresisting, eager, and sighed openly when he touched her.
“It’ll be morning soon,” he whispered.
“I know.” She let him draw her closer, her breasts nestling against his chest. Then she trailed a series of kisses from his ear and down the underside of his jaw and slid her tongue over the ultrasensitive skin there.
He lifted his head to kiss her with the pent-up longing of all the dark lonely nights of wanting her, of hungering for her. Although he was weary to the bone, he needed her now as he never had before. Needed her as an absolution for the life he’d once lived. Needed her to obliterate the pain of being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. As proof that he was alive and capable of feeling and loving and caring. He positioned himself above her and thrust deep inside her welcoming body. A sigh that slipped from the back of her throat told him she needed him, too.
The incredible pleasure drove any other thought from his mind. He gave her everything. His heart, his soul, all he ever hoped to become, all he would ever be. In the aftermath of their lov
Soon afterward, their positions reversed, Molly fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. A wiser man might have followed her into that gentle oblivion, but Sam chose, instead, to hold her as long as he could. To love her consciously a while longer.
Finally, exhausted, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, really slept, without the weight of innumerable problems bearing down on him. As he felt his mind drifting off to the peaceful state of nothingness, he remembered that Molly wasn’t on the birth-control pill yet and that—for the first time since their wedding—they hadn’t used any protection. He smiled, despite everything. If Molly became pregnant as a result of this night, he knew he wouldn’t regret it, hard as an unplanned pregnancy would be.
“Mr. Wilson would like to see you in his office,” Tom’s English teacher, Mrs. Kirby, informed him before class.
The principal? Why would the principal want to see him? Tom tried to think what he might have done to get in trouble and could think of nothing. He’d played it safe since starting school. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which kids were the troublemakers. Most of them were proud of the havoc they caused. Being bad was their claim to individuality—or so they thought.
When he’d entered the school as a new kid, both sides—the bad-ass guys and the serious ones—made overtures of friendship toward him. The decision had been Tom’s as to which side he’d join. Last spring he’d learned his lesson about the consequences of being friends with a troublemaker like Eddie Ries.
At the time Tom had tried to play it cool, but he still felt guilty about that incident. He especially felt guilty about the look he’d seen on his mother’s face when she’d come to the school to get him. That was all the lesson he needed. For a mother, his was all right. They didn’t always agree, but she was pretty easy to get along with, especially now that she was married to Sam. Tom wanted to make both of them proud, so he’d carefully stayed away from anything that hinted of trouble.