Montana (17 page)

The barn door flew open and, assuming it was the wind, Sam hurried over to close it.

“Mom isn't back!” Rain pouring off the brim of his hat, his eyes filled with panic, Tom burst into the barn. “She left for town a little after twelve and she isn't back. Gramps expected her home around three.”

Sam checked his watch. Seven-fifteen.

“I thought she might've decided to wait out the storm, but she would've phoned. I know she would.” The boy was trying to stay calm, but it was an obvious struggle.

“Which vehicle did she take?”

“Gramps's truck.”

Sam handed Tom his brush and headed outside. Walt's vehicle was on its last legs. She shouldn't be driving it at all! Then he realized that she was probably picking up the shingles and drainage pipe he'd ordered—which would never have fit in her car.

“Where are you going?” Tom asked, racing after him.

“Where else, boy? After your mother.”

“But she could be anywhere.”

“True.” But it made no difference. “You won't see me again until I've found her, understand?” No one would rest easy until Molly was back, safe and sound. He'd find her, and he wouldn't return until he had.

Five minutes later Sam was on the road that led to town. The windshield wipers slapped the rain from side to side, and visibility was practically zero. The rain streamed down in torrents that quickly filled the gullies and washed across the roadway. Driving was hazardous and it took Sam's full concentration to keep his truck on the road.

Wherever Molly was, Sam prayed she'd be smart enough to seek shelter. If the truck had broken down, the worst thing she could do would be to leave it. Anyone from the country would know that, but Molly was a city girl.

As he carefully steered down the highway, going no faster than ten miles an hour, he shuddered, trying not to think beyond the moment. If anything had happened to Molly, it'd kill the old man. She was the only thing that kept him alive. She and her boys. And what about Tom and Clay? What if they lost their mother?

What if
he
lost Molly? Without ever really knowing her. Without ever having the chance to see if they could build a life together.

Sam saw a vehicle in the distance parked by the side of the road. He squinted through the furious beating of the windshield wipers and tried to make out the type and color.

It didn't take him long to recognize the vehicle as Walt's run-down truck. The Chevy was in about the same shape as the old man's heart.

He pulled over and left the headlights on, facing the other vehicle. Through the pounding rain it was impossible to tell if she was inside the cab or not.

He opened his door and leaped out. Hunching his shoulders against the storm, he ran, slipping and sliding, to the other truck. With both hands, he shielded his face and peered through the passenger window.

She wasn't there.

He cursed and turned around, looking frantically up and down the road. His biggest fear was that she'd decided to walk to the ranch, fallen into a gully and drowned.

“Molly!” he shouted.

Nothing.

He'd told Tom he wouldn't return without her, and he'd meant it. He tried to think where she'd go, what she might have been thinking. Logic would've told anyone with half a brain to stay in the truck, dammit.

Lightning briefly lit up the sky, and in that second he saw a flash of color huddled against the trunk of a massive oak tree. It stood across a field planted with alfalfa.

“Molly?” He couldn't understand why she'd be sitting next to a tree with the rain pouring down on her when she could be warm and dry inside the truck.

It wasn't until he drew closer that he realized Molly wasn't sitting.

She was lying facedown in the mud.

“M
olly! Molly!”

Her name seemed to echo, ringing in her ears. It was giving her a headache. No, she already had a headache. She struggled to sit up but couldn't. When she tried to raise her arm and investigate what was wrong, she found herself unable to move.

The sound of her name was clearer now. Sam? What was he doing here? For that matter, where the hell
was
she? Molly moved her hand and black mud oozed between her fingers. Slowly, painfully, she used what strength she possessed to raise her head.

“Molly.” The relief in Sam's voice was unmistakable.

She felt herself being lifted and turned, and all she could see was Sam Dakota against a backdrop of dark sky. Rain hit her face and she blinked. There was a blinding streak of lightning, and she squinted at the brightness and the instant pain it produced.

“Are you all right?” Sam demanded fiercely. He sounded worried—and angry. He was rubbing a cloth across her face, smearing the mud.

Molly shook her head in order to avoid this punishment, but it did little good and only served to make the pain worse. “Don't, please…don't…don't.” But he ignored her pleas.

“What happened?” He brushed the hair from her brow, and when he drew his hand away she thought she saw blood. She hoped it wasn't hers.

“Is that blood?” she asked. “And is it mine or yours?” Her mouth felt so dry she had trouble speaking.

Apparently he didn't hear her or more likely didn't want to answer. His attention seemed to focus on her forehead. “What are you looking for now?” she asked irritably, her voice gaining strength. “The mark of the beast?”

The merest hint of a smile flashed in his eyes, but his mouth remained drawn. “You must have fallen and hit your head.”

His words prompted Molly's memory. On her way back from town, the truck had suddenly died. Although she'd never been mechanically inclined, she could certainly read a gauge. Gas wasn't the problem, and the battery had been fine earlier. Nonetheless, the truck had sputtered and stalled, and after a few gasping coughs stopped altogether. Not knowing what else to do, she'd waited for help.

After several hours, with no other vehicles on that road, the storm had come. The rain had pounded the truck, vicious and unrelenting. Any hope she'd had of rescue disappeared. She realized she'd have to wait out the storm. But after thirty minutes, when it showed no sign of lessening, she'd ventured from the safety of the cab to be sure she wasn't in danger of floating away.

“While I was out there, I saw a light,” she told him. “So I was sure there must be a farmhouse close by.” She avoided meeting his eyes, knowing he thought her every kind of fool, and she didn't blame him. It had been stupid to leave the truck in a storm, but the light hadn't seemed far away, and she'd assumed she could walk there.

“Didn't you stop and think about…?” Sam didn't bother to finish his question.

“Crossing the field didn't look all that daunting, and I figured I'd rather deal with a little mud than leave Gramps and the boys worrying. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“What happened then?”

“I'd only gone a short ways and the mud was up to my ankles. I…tripped and the next thing I remember was you bending over me.”

“Hasn't anyone ever told you that…” With what appeared to be considerable effort, he bit off whatever else he intended to say. Molly was grateful; she wasn't up to hearing a lecture right now.

“Don't scold me—I know what I did was stupid.” She was drenched to the bone, her temple throbbed something fierce, and she was covered head to toe in black ooze. Worse, she'd made a world-class fool of herself—and naturally Sam had been the one to find her.

At least the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

Sliding his arm around her waist, he helped her stand. Rainwater ran from her hair down her neck and back. Once she was upright, the alfalfa field began to spin and she had to lean against Sam. He tightened his arm while she struggled to regain her equilibrium.

After a moment, in which the world still reeled, Sam cursed under his breath and hoisted her into his arms.

“Put me down,” she insisted, closing her eyes at the sudden jarring pain. “I can walk—just give me a couple of minutes and I'll be as good as new.”

“The hell with it! You can't even stand.” He started toward the truck, taking slow careful steps. He was having as much difficulty as she'd had earlier, with the mud pulling his boots deeper and deeper. Each time he lifted his foot the ground made a sucking sound of protest.

“How much do you weigh, anyhow?” he growled when they'd covered about half the distance.

“I'll have you know I've lost five pounds since June.”

“Right now, I wish it'd been ten.”

Feeling as wretched as she did, she could do without the insults. “Put me down this instant.” Molly figured he'd welcome the opportunity to dump her right then and there; she steeled herself to being dropped butt-first in the muck. But he ignored her and continued the long arduous trek back to the road.

Every couple of steps he'd mutter something she was glad she couldn't understand. Her head hurt, throbbing in unison with her pulse. After the first few minutes she closed her eyes and pressed her temple against his shoulder. She was cold and miserable, yet she felt secure in Sam's arms, secure enough to be thankful he'd found her—despite his anger. And her embarrassment. Soon they'd be home….

“Molly, wake up.”

Her eyes flew open. “What?”

“Don't go to sleep. You've probably got a concussion.”

“Okay.” But despite her efforts, her eyelids drooped.

“Dammit, Molly,” he said, “this is difficult enough.”

It was so hard to keep her eyes open. So very hard. “I…I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen.”

Sam's labored breathing slowed once he reached the road. He carried her to his truck, opened the passenger door and helped her inside, settling her on the seat with surprising gentleness. She glanced at her reflection in the side mirror and gasped. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, and the stringy tendrils trickled water against her shoulders. A large bump protruded from her forehead, along with a nasty-looking gash at her hairline. It didn't seem too deep or in need of stitches. Mud was smeared across her cheeks. Her clothes dripped with thick black muck.

“I've seen cattle with more sense than you,” Sam said between clenched teeth as he climbed into the driver's seat.

Molly turned and stared out the side window, shaking with cold and feeling more wretched by the moment. The brief illusion of security she'd felt in Sam's arms was gone. Perhaps the best thing would be to contact Russell Letson and tell him she'd had a change of heart and she'd sell the ranch, after all. No. She couldn't do that to Gramps. It was just her misery talking.

Silently she waited, expecting Sam to turn on the ignition. Nothing happened for so long that curiosity got the better of her. She looked over to find him sitting with his arms outstretched, hands clutching the steering wheel. He seemed to be staring at something directly in front of them.

He must have sensed her scrutiny because he gave a deep sigh. “I apologize, Molly. I shouldn't have said that.”

“I…I don't blame you. I deserved it—and your other insults, too. It was stupid to leave the truck.” Even wearier now than before, she laid her head against the window and managed a weak smile. “Can we go home now? All I want is a hot bath and about a hundred tablets of extra-strength aspirin.”

“Home.” He repeated the word as though it was some kind of magical incantation, and in that instant she realized that the Broken Arrow Ranch
was
home. Hers—and his? Somehow she'd find a way to keep this property. He'd be welcome to stay. But with or without Sam Dakota, she was going to do her damnedest to hold on to her heritage.

 

Tom had pretended he had no real interest in participating in the Fourth of July celebrations. But in truth he was excited about it. He just didn't want anyone to know. Back in San Francisco his friends bought illegal fire crackers and set them off to annoy people. Stupid. This was going to be different. He couldn't remember the last time his family had gone on a real picnic or watched a parade.

To admit he was looking forward to the holiday might give his mother the wrong impression, though. He wasn't a kid anymore, but a man. Or almost one. He worked alongside Sam, who'd assured him he was a real help. Tom felt good about that. He'd never expected to like Montana, but found he enjoyed life on the ranch and the challenge of each new day.

And his little brother—well, Clay was as excited about this picnic as that silly puppy of his. He ran back and forth from the house, loading up the car with stuff from the kitchen. His mother sure knew how to pack a picnic basket. There was enough food to last them a week—which suited Tom just fine. He kind of wondered if she'd gone to so much effort to impress Sam.

The foreman was driving into town with them. Ever since they'd come here, Tom hadn't seen Sam take a single day off. Not a whole day, anyway. Man, if anyone deserved a holiday, it was Sam! Better yet, Sam would be with his mother. Not that this was a real date or anything, but close enough to maybe get them talking. Tom wished they
would
talk.

Ever since Sam had gone looking for his mother in the storm, things had been better between them. Before that, he'd noticed how stiff and polite they were, as if they were afraid to say what they really meant. Like everything was on the surface, not from their hearts. Tom had his own suspicions—his own hopes—about what their hearts might want to say.

The goose egg on his mother's forehead wasn't as big anymore, and with that powder stuff she put on her face, the bruise was barely noticeable. She'd been in bad shape when Sam brought her home. Although he was cold and wet himself, he'd insisted she take a hot shower right away, and while she was doing that, he'd reassured Gramps there was nothing to worry about. He'd phoned Doc Shaver, telling Gramps it was just a precaution. Then he'd called a garage in town to arrange a tow for the truck. Sam's clothes had dried before he ever got a chance to shower.

The afternoon his mother had gone missing hadn't been an easy one for Tom. He hadn't wanted to say anything to Clay, but he'd been worried. Real worried. His stomach had cramped, and every time he thought about what might have happened, he felt like he had to go to the bathroom. What had helped most was remembering Sam's words about not coming back without her.

Every few minutes he'd looked out the window, hoping to see headlights, but it'd been hours before Sam finally pulled into the yard.

Gramps was relieved, too. He'd been just as concerned, but kept it hidden, the way Tom had. They'd exchanged worried glances, but neither of them had said anything.

“You ready, cowboy?” His mother stood at the foot of the stairs and called up to him.

“I guess.” Although his voice didn't reveal any enthusiasm, he raced downstairs and nearly collided with Clay.

“I'm taking my pillow,” his brother said as he slipped past Tom and bounded up the stairs.

“I didn't know you still took naps,” Tom said. He enjoyed riling his little brother.

“I don't,” protested Clay as he ran downstairs clutching his pillow. “But when the fireworks start, I want to lie back and watch them.”

“Sweetgrass isn't going to have any fireworks,” Tom muttered, amazed at how disappointed he felt. A town only big enough for a weekly newspaper wasn't going to come up with the money to afford real fireworks.

Either Clay didn't hear him or wasn't in the mood to argue, because his little brother let the comment slide.

“What car we taking?” Tom asked, slouching in the kitchen chair as if this was all too much effort.

“Ours,” his mother answered, tucking a jar of pickles into a cardboard box.

“Your mother trusts me enough to drive,” Sam said, and held up the car keys. “Before long you'll be doing the honors.”

“He's only fourteen,” Molly said, adding a can of insect repellant to the box.

“He'll be at the wheel before you know it,” Sam told her. He caught Tom's eye and winked.

Tom hid a smile. What his mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Sam had been giving him lessons for a couple of weeks now. His legs were just long enough to reach the clutch and the gas pedal. At first he was sure he'd never be able to do it, but Sam had assured him everyone had trouble in the beginning. Before long he'd gotten the hang of it and was confident enough to drive Sam's truck for short distances.

Molly ran her fingers through her hair. “Gramps,” she said, “are you sure we can't talk you into coming with us?”

Gramps shook his head and grumbled something about a parade being a waste of taxpayers' money. He left it at that.