Montana (15 page)

Standing in her bare feet, Molly yawned.

“We think you should do it,” Tom said eagerly, his eyes bright and happy.

Molly blinked, afraid to ask what he was talking about. Gramps
wouldn't
have. He couldn't have. If he'd mentioned anything about her marrying Sam to the boys, she didn't know
how
she'd respond.

“Do what?” she asked uneasily. Her gaze slowly traveled to Gramps, who looked far too pleased.

“Learn to ride,” Clay answered. “Sam can teach you.”

“I could teach you, too,” Tom said confidently.

She hoped her relief wasn't evident. “I…I think that's a good idea,” she said.

The back door opened and Sam walked in. His eyes immediately went to her, and self-conscious, Molly gripped the lapels of her robe together. This was the second time he'd come upon her in her nightclothes. She didn't imagine herself as any beauty, not with her hair plastered to the side of her head and her eyes red from sleeplessness.

“Morning, Sam,” Tom greeted him.

“Mornin'.” He removed his hat and set it carefully on the counter. “I've got a list of supplies I need,” he said, unfolding the sheet. “But I don't have time to run into town.”

“I'll go,” Molly offered before he had the opportunity to ask.

His smile told her he appreciated it. Nodding once, he handed her the list. Molly read it over and it might as well have been Greek for all the sense it made. Sam must have noticed her confusion because he took the time to explain each item to her, making small notes in the margins.

When he'd finished, Molly realized they were alone. She'd heard Gramps and the boys leave but she'd been busy concentrating on what Sam was telling her, and had paid it no mind. The supply list was important if she intended to learn how to manage a ranch.

“Did you sleep well?” Sam asked, the question catching her unprepared.

“Like a log,” she lied, brushing the hair away from her face. She didn't want him to know how restless her night had been. Or how often she'd reviewed the conversation they'd had after taking Gramps to his room.

Sam hadn't appeared too eager to marry her, either. Although if he
had
revealed any enthusiasm, she'd have to credit it to the offer of cattle and land.

Judging by his smile, he knew she'd lied about sleeping well.

“I was awake most of the night,” she admitted, lifting her hand to her forehead and running it through her uncombed curls. “What about you?”

“I certainly didn't have any trouble falling asleep,” he said, “but I woke up early.”

“I slept late.”

“So I see,” he said, eyeing her robe and bare feet.

Turning away, he helped himself to a cup of coffee, took his first sip and grimaced. “I take it you didn't brew this?”

She smiled and shook her head. He offered her some, but she declined. “I've tasted Tom's efforts before. He can't seem to understand it's only one scoop of grounds and not five.” Molly wasn't sure when Sam moved closer, but suddenly he had. Scant inches separated them. His gaze burned into hers as he set the coffee aside.

Molly held her breath. She knew what he wanted and realized she wanted it, too. She was tempted to close her eyes and offer him her lips—but that would be wrong. They'd made their decision, both of them. Marriage was marriage and not to be mocked. Neither one of them was interested in a business arrangement; he'd assured her he wasn't, and she'd told him the same thing.

Sam didn't move. Nor did she. Molly began to wonder if they'd both stopped breathing.

“I…I did a lot of thinking last night,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. He deserved her honesty if nothing else. “I can't see it working with you and me.” She seemed to have difficulty shaping the words. “Following through with Gramps's idea, I mean.”

His face moved a fraction of an inch closer to hers.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, Molly let her tongue moisten her lips. A quick movement—but that was all it took for Sam to accept her unspoken invitation. His warm moist mouth settled over hers.

The kiss was gentle, unhurried. Pleasurable. Even more than that first kiss, in the barn. Not satisfied to keep it simple, Sam stroked her lips with the tip of his tongue, sweetening the contact. She shivered and grabbed hold of his upper arms.

She wasn't sure which of them moaned. Then Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her body to his as he devoured her mouth with his own.

Her mind screamed that this had to stop, while her body responded to him totally, almost involuntarily. The kiss went on, slow and soft, until he trapped her bottom lip between his teeth and introduced his tongue, coaxing and enticing her own.

A sharp discordant sound shattered the moment. They broke apart like teenagers caught necking in the school hallway.

Molly reeled back, her chest heaving. The sound, whatever it was, was gone. It took her a moment to register that Gramps had turned on the radio in the living room.

Sam moved behind her and nuzzled the side of her neck. “You okay?”

She couldn't have spoken to save her life, so she nodded.

“Good.”

Still he lingered, his warm breath fanning her neck. “I'm glad we got that settled,” he murmured.

“Settled? What…”

“I've got to get back to Pete and Charlie.” His reluctance to leave her was as apparent as her unwillingness to let him go.

“Sam!” she cried, stopping him before he walked out the door.

He turned back, his eyes darker and more intense than she could ever remember seeing them. “What…what did we settle?”

He placed the hat back on his head. His gaze held hers for a long moment. “You figure it out.”

“B
ingo!” Clay yelled. He leaped up and danced a triumphant jig about the living room. The puppy, who'd been asleep on the couch, barely raised his head at the commotion.

“Hurry and phone in before someone claims your three bucks,” Gramps said, pointing to the telephone. Radio bingo was one of the few pleasures he could still enjoy. Molly had agreed to collect the bingo sheets every week from the sponsoring merchants in town, and Walt listened at eight and ten-thirty each weekday morning for the announcer to read off the numbers. The big jackpot was up to $385, but to win that, you had to bingo within the first five numbers. He'd come close several times. Close but no cigar.

“The line's busy,” Clay said, beginning to pout.

“Then someone beat you to the punch, boy,” he said. This was one of life's lessons, Walt believed, and Clay would be wise to learn it now while he was young. Act fast. Don't delay. Take a risk once in a while. Walt wished Molly had learned that lesson a little more thoroughly, that she was more of a risk-taker. Then this marriage business might be resolved. As things stood, his granddaughter stubbornly refused to marry Sam.

“But I had a bingo,” Clay argued. “I should be able to get my prize.”

“You need to be the first one to phone in with the correct numbers,” Gramps said. “I told you that when we started. Someone else got bingo, too, and they beat you to the phone.”

The three-dollar prize money wasn't much, but Clay would have had bragging rights. Walt had an inkling that was what concerned him most.

Molly strolled into the living room, holding Sam's shirt. Walt seemed to remember that she'd offered to mend it for him. “What's all the commotion?” she asked.

“I had a bingo, but I didn't call in fast enough.” Clay's shoulders sagged, as if this were a tragedy of biblical proportions.

“I haven't had bingo in three weeks,” Walt complained. If he didn't know better, he'd think the game was rigged. He placed the bingo sheets inside an old greeting-card box and set it down beside him on the end table. Normally he kept the sheets on his desk, but it was crowded with bills and invoices and bank statements, a lot of them in unopened envelopes. He felt a surge of guilt every time he thought about adding the paperwork to Sam's already heavy workload.

Working all hours of the day and night, Sam had no time for dealing with the piles of business-related documents and correspondence, so Molly had recently taken it on. She'd just begun to study the books, to get a grasp of the situation. Walt tried to answer her questions, but his mind wasn't always clear. He was afraid he might be doing more harm than good, confusing her rather than explaining things properly.

Their finances weren't in good shape, he knew. Cattle prices were down and had been for a number of years, dipping lower and lower each season. To say money was tight was an understatement. Walt had barely scraped by the past few years. Paying bills only depressed him, so it was a task he tended to avoid. Molly hadn't said anything yet, and he wondered if she was aware how poorly the ranch was doing.

“The Millers are having a moving sale Friday, Saturday and Sunday at 204 Walnut from eight to five all three days,” the radio announcer said.

Molly looked astonished. “They're advertising a garage sale on the radio?”

Gramps reached over and turned the knob. “They do every weekday. It's part of the community programming.”

“I remember the Millers,” Molly said thoughtfully. “They ran one of the service stations.”

“They've been around here nearly as long as the Wheatons,” Walt told her, shaking his head sadly. “They sold out.” It bothered him that Brady Miller had given in to outside pressures. Brady said it was because of financial problems, that the business wasn't making a profit, but Walt was convinced those damn fanatics had something to do with it. They wanted
his
land, too, but Walt had refused to sell.

“I never heard a radio station that plays hardly any music until we moved to Montana,” Clay said. He cradled the puppy against his shoulder like a mother carrying her newborn babe.

Walt figured the dog had been one of his better ideas. Clay was learning about responsibility, about caring for another creature. And when Bullwinkle was about four months old, they'd start his training. The dog would earn his keep, the same way Boris and Natasha did.

“This is a small-town radio station,” Gramps heard Molly explain.

“But all they do is talk,” Clay said. “The bingo's fun, but the rest of it's all about how much alfalfa costs and stuff like that. What about rap? What about grunge?”

“They play that for a couple of hours at night,” Walt explained. “Kid stuff.” It wasn't real music, in his opinion. Tom had been listening to some hideous tape one night recently, and it sounded more like a barnful of sick calves crying for their mothers than anything associated with musical instruments. It'd bothered Walt so much that he'd wadded up tissue and stuck it in both ears. Molly had taken one look at him and burst out laughing, but hell, a man needed to protect his hearing.

Walt hadn't appreciated being the source of Molly's amusement. Dammit, a man could go deaf listening to what his great-grandsons considered music. He'd told them both exactly what he thought of it, too.

“You're going into town later?” he asked Molly, “'Cause I need razor blades.”

“I'll make sure I pick some up while I'm there.”

He nodded and raised his hand to his jaw. His Molly had asked one thing of him shortly after their marriage, and it was that he shave every night. It seemed a small thing, so he'd complied, willing to do whatever it took to make his sweetheart happy. A lifetime habit was hard to break. Even now, all these years after her death, he rarely went to bed without shaving.

“I've got a list going,” she said. “Do you need anything else?”

Walt shook his head. He watched her as she returned to the kitchen and the sewing machine she'd set up on the table. He'd been worried about her and Sam. A week had come and gone since he'd made his suggestion, with no result. Walt studied the two of them every chance he got, hoping to read their thoughts, but it was impossible to decipher what either one of them was thinking.

Especially when they worked so hard at avoiding each other. Sam rarely joined the family for supper these days, although Molly always set out a plate for him. Generally, he reheated what she'd left and ate alone, often out on the porch, surrounded by dogs. Some nights he didn't get to the ranch house until well after dark. Walt didn't know if he purposely stayed away or if he was doing the work of two men. Probably both.

“You napping, Gramps?” Clay asked softly.

“Just resting my eyes, boy.” Walt's afternoon naps came earlier and earlier these days. He'd only been awake a couple of hours and already he was so tired he couldn't keep his eyes open. The doc had wanted him to make another appointment, but Walt couldn't see where it would do any good. It cost money he couldn't spare. Not only that, the price of medicine these days was outrageous. Highway robbery. No government handouts for him, either. Walt Wheaton paid his own way or he went without. True, he'd let the government help him with the cost of his pacemaker, but that was as far as it went. That was all the charity he was willing to accept.

“Sam's taking us to the Fourth of July parade,” Clay said, sitting down on the ottoman with the puppy. The kid would be the ruin of that dog yet, but Walt was secretly delighted that there was such a strong bond between those two. A boy needed a dog—and vice versa.

“Good.” He liked the idea of Sam spending time with Molly and the kids. Walt himself couldn't handle standing in the hot sun to watch a bunch of youngsters walking down the street pulling little red wagons. He'd never been fond of parades, although he'd attended plenty in his time because his wife had enjoyed them. He'd have done anything for his Molly.
A man does that when he's in love.

“Sam…said he wanted to come along?” This news appeared to surprise Molly.

Walt peeked at his granddaughter who'd come to stand in the doorway. He saw that this information had flustered her considerably. Good. Maybe, just maybe, the idea of marriage wasn't a lost cause, after all. Holding back a grin was damn near impossible as Walt leaned his head against the recliner and dreamed of Molly's future with Sam.

 

In all her life Molly had never washed clothes this dirty. Mud crusted the knees of her boys' jeans, dirt they'd accumulated following Sam around the ranch. Tom spent the majority of his time with him. That wasn't all; her son was beginning to sound like him and to walk like him, and even to imitate his gestures.

If that wasn't bad enough, Tom constantly talked about him, too. It was
Sam this
and
Sam that
until Molly felt like covering her ears and demanding he stop.

She stuffed three pairs of jeans into the washer. As the water churned, a thick layer of mud and scum formed on the surface. She'd have to run this load through the wash cycle twice, which meant keeping a close eye on the timer.

Sam. The harder she tried to push him from her mind, the more difficult it became. Twice he'd kissed her and twice he'd left her…confused.

I'm glad we got that settled.

He'd said that to her after the most recent kiss, almost a week ago, and when she'd asked what he meant, he'd told her to figure it out herself. Molly was still so angry she could barely look at the man.

Her only conclusion—and it didn't settle anything—was that she was a woman with normal needs and desires. It'd been years since a man had kissed her the way Sam had. Years since her dormant senses had been stirred awake. Well, she didn't like the feeling. Didn't enjoy being vulnerable. His kisses embarrassed her, and consequently she'd avoided him all week.

And he'd avoided her, too. Why, she could only speculate. Perhaps he regretted the kissing incident as much as she did. Somehow, though, she knew that wasn't the real reason he'd kept his distance.

He was giving her space. Enough space to flounder in. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn't. Not when he was so good to Gramps and her boys.

That was what made everything so damned difficult. Gramps didn't need to tell her how pleased Tom and Clay would be if she married Sam and how devastated they'd be when he left. Especially Tom, who worshiped the ground Sam Dakota walked on.

That hurt a little. No, actually it hurt quite a bit. Not for a second did Molly begrudge her son a mentor, but she missed the closeness she and Tom used to have—until a year ago, when he'd become so moody and difficult.

She should be thrilled that Tom's attitude had completely changed. And she was. What she found hard to take was the fact that the positive influence on her son had been Sam's. Not hers. Only Sam's. She supposed it was natural enough, but…

The tears that brimmed in her eyes came as a surprise. She blinked several times, trying to keep them at bay.

Sam would marry her, she thought grimly. All she had to do was say the word. He'd be a fool not to, seeing that Gramps had offered him what amounted to a dowry. The memory of that conversation—five hundred acres and fifty head of cattle—was enough to make her want to stomp her foot with outrage. Gramps had actually tried to bribe his foreman to marry her! It was absolutely mortifying.

More than once in the past week she'd felt Sam watching her. His eyes were like a warm caress and left her all too aware of what he wanted. What she wanted, too. What distressed Molly the most was her own response. Idiot that she was, she'd have welcomed his touch—and he knew it.

When she'd restarted the wash cycle, she picked up the shirt she'd mended for him. Folding it she left the laundry room to return it to Sam's place.

Still angry with herself, she crossed the yard to the small house where he lived. She knew so little about him; he revealed so little of himself. Russell Letson had suggested Sam wasn't trustworthy and implied that he had information he couldn't or wouldn't share. Gramps had been furious that she'd listened to such gossip and had defended Sam as if he were his own flesh and blood.

While her instincts told her Sam
was
trustworthy, Molly reminded herself she'd once had complete faith in Daniel, too. By the time she'd discovered the truth, it was too late. To be fair, she'd been younger then, less experienced, more naive. Nevertheless, she didn't want to repeat her mistake.

Molly had been in Sam's living quarters, mostly to drop off laundry, a number of times. His bedroom was small and cramped. But although the accommodations were modest, he kept them in decent order.

She placed the mended shirt on his bed and turned to leave then paused in the doorway and looked around, seeing the room with fresh eyes. Sam had slept in this room for more than seven months. Not a single picture was displayed. No family photographs. Nothing to indicate there was anyone important in his life.

The letter that had arrived a week or so earlier—the letter from the other ranch—was the only piece of personal mail he'd received in all the time she'd been here. Suddenly she saw the ticket, tucked in the corner of his mirror. She shouldn't have read it, should simply have walked away, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from crossing the room and looking.