Montana (30 page)

Molly hesitated a moment, but at last slipped the chain from around her neck and gave it to Max.

He held it in the palm of his hand, then turned it over and studied the back. “This is a family piece, isn't it?”

“Gramps bought it during the Second World War, someplace in France, I believe.”

“It could have been Italy. Quite a few cameos are made there.”

Molly hadn't known that.

“It's lovely.”

“Thank you.” She held out her hand; Max seemed a little reluctant to let the cameo go.

“You take care of it,” he said.

“I will,” Molly promised with complete confidence. This cameo, like the ranch, was part of her heritage. Someday she'd give it to Tom's wife or perhaps her own granddaughter. When she did, Molly would tell the story of a young man trapped in a war and the woman he loved who waited half a world away for his safe return.

“I didn't think you'd want to sell it.” Max accepted her payment and subtracted that amount from what was owed on the silver buckle. “This is a good thing you're doing,” he said with a nod of approval.

“Sam's the generous one.”

“He's a good man, I agree with you there,” the pawnbroker said.

She and Max exchanged friendly goodbyes. Her business finished, she walked back to where Sam had parked the pickup. Assuming he'd still be a while, she decided to look around the J. C. Penney store. She was about to venture inside when she heard Sam call her.

Surprised he was finished so soon, Molly turned around to see him storm across Front Street.

“Let's get out of here,” he said, his mouth tight with anger.

“Already?” He hadn't been with Mr. Burns more than ten minutes, if that.

“No need to discuss the matter of a loan any further,” Sam muttered. He turned away, as if he'd failed her.

“What happened?” Molly had to know.

“We aren't going to get any loan, Molly. We're going to have to find another way to hold on to the ranch.”

T
he alarm sounded, and Molly groaned as she climbed out of bed, leaving Sam to sleep while she brewed a pot of coffee. These late-October mornings were crisp and cold, and she reached for her robe and tied it securely about her waist, then made her way, blurry-eyed, into the kitchen. Standing in front of the coffeemaker, she waited for the hot water to filter through for the first cup.

“Mornin',” Sam murmured a couple of minutes later as he moved behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. Turning into his arms, Molly hugged her husband, savoring the closeness they shared.

Sam yawned. He was exhausted, Molly realized, and wished he'd stayed in bed awhile longer. She didn't know what time he'd gone to sleep, but it was long after she had, and that had been close to midnight. Sam had wanted to review the accounting books one last time before meeting with the other independent ranchers.

“I've got the Cattlemen's Association meeting this morning,” he reminded her.

Molly rested her forehead against his shoulder and swallowed a sigh. With money worries crowding in around them, they clung to each other for emotional support. Their lovemaking had taken on an abandonment, a need, as if proving their love often enough would safeguard their world.

Molly tightened her arms around him. She treasured these moments before the boys paraded down the stairs. The serenity of the morning would shatter as soon as Tom and Clay charged into the kitchen.

The coffeepot gurgled. Reluctantly Molly disentangled herself from her husband's arms and brought down two mugs, filling each one. The aroma, which generally revived her, had the opposite effect this morning. Her stomach heaved, and for a couple of seconds she actually thought she might be sick.

“You okay?” Sam asked. “You don't look so good.”

“I'm fine,” she lied. It was the strain and worry of their financial situation. Molly knew that stress could manifest itself in all kinds of physical ailments. She didn't want to add health concerns to Sam's already heavy load, so she reassured him with a saucy grin. “If you come back to bed, I'll show you exactly how fine I am.”

“Don't tempt me.” He took a first tentative sip of his coffee and glanced at his watch. “I've got to get moving.” He kissed her cheek and, carrying his mug, disappeared into their bedroom.

Still feeling a bit queasy, she leaned against the counter. She remembered the last time the smell of coffee had bothered her—when she was pregnant with Clay.
Pregnant.
Molly frowned and realized she couldn't recall the date of her last period. She thought she'd been on schedule since Gramps's death, but couldn't be sure. It went without saying that the expense of a pregnancy just then would cripple them. The health insurance they did have was limited, and it paid next to nothing for routine medical conditions. Like pregnancies.

The doctor had told her the emotional upheaval of Gramps's death might upset her cycle, so she'd put off starting her birth-control pills for a month or two. But she and Sam had been so careful! She
couldn't
be pregnant.

At the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs, Molly removed half a dozen eggs from the refrigerator. One of the pleasures of being an at-home mom was that she could indulge her boys with the luxury of a hot meal on these cool autumn mornings.

“What's for breakfast?” Clay asked as he clumped into the kitchen. The half-grown dog trotted behind him, settling beneath the table. Her son pulled out a chair and immediately reached for the radio. Five minutes of world, national and Montana news was followed by the listing of school lunches, beef prices and the reminder of radio bingo and the local sponsors.

“We get hot dogs today,” Clay said cheerfully. “Is it all right if I buy my lunch?”

“Sure.” Molly cracked the eggs against the side of a ceramic bowl, then added milk and whipped the mixture with a fork.

“I'll take his lunch if you've already got it packed,” Tom said. His voice alternated between two octaves; her oldest son was becoming a man, and the evidence showed every time he spoke.

“You need two lunches?” Molly asked him. He'd grown an inch and a half over the summer, and his appetite had never been better. Must be the country air, Molly concluded.

“I'll eat the second one after school,” Tom explained, “before football practice.”

Dressed in a pair of freshly laundered jeans, a Western shirt and string tie, Sam joined the others in the kitchen. “Something smells good.”

“French toast,” Clay informed him.

“You two can set the table,” Molly said to the boys.

“Going someplace, Dad?” Tom asked.

Molly smiled every time she heard Tom address Sam as Dad. He'd started shortly after the incident at the school. Sam had never made a big deal of it, but she knew it pleased him. It pleased her, too.

“A meeting with the other cattlemen,” Sam answered.

Suddenly the radio announcer had a news flash. Human remains had been discovered along Route 32, about fifteen miles outside town. A couple of hunters had happened upon the decomposed body and reported their find to the sheriff's office.

Molly's hand stilled and her gaze sought Sam's. “Pearl Mitchell?” she asked.

“That would be my guess,” he said with a note of sadness.

“Isn't she the lady someone killed?” Clay asked. “I didn't think people got murdered in places like Sweetgrass. That's the kind of stuff that goes on in San Francisco, not Montana.”

Molly had believed the same thing. Not once in all the months she'd been in Sweetgrass had she thought to even lock the house. The dogs were protection enough. And as for locking the car—well, according to a crime report she'd heard over the radio, there hadn't been a car stolen in three years.

“How will they know if the remains belong to that missing woman?” Tom wanted to know.

“The sheriff will probably send them to a laboratory in Helena,” Sam explained. “With luck, the body could give the authorities enough evidence to locate the murderer.”

Molly hoped that was true. Hardly anyone spoke of the killing these days. It had been several weeks now, and with no suspects and few clues, Pearl's murder remained unsolved. Sometimes Molly still worried that the people of Sweetgrass blamed Sam, but that didn't appear to be the case. It was as though the subject of the murdered hooker was forbidden. People felt bad about her death, but she wasn't someone they knew or cared about. The only people who seemed to miss her—besides Russell Letson—were the randy cowhands who came into town looking for a good time. But from what Molly heard, there were plenty of young women willing to take over where Pearl had left off.

The boys grabbed their books and were out the door five minutes before the school bus was due at the end of their drive. Molly carried their syrupy plates to the sink, which she filled with hot sudsy water.

“I'm leaving, too,” Sam said, reaching for his Stetson. He paused in the doorway. “Just make dinner for the boys tonight. Something easy.”

Molly frowned. “What about us?”

“We're going out to dinner.”

They so rarely went out that the idea flustered her. “Where? Why?”

“Dinner and a movie.”

Finances didn't allow this sort of thing. “But, Sam—”

“No arguments.” He grinned, and any resistance she felt melted away.

“Are we celebrating something special?”

His grin widened. “Yeah, I just don't know what it is yet. How about celebrating the fact that I love you? Is that a good enough reason?”

She nodded, feeling the strangest urge to cry. Sam left then, and in the quiet of the morning, the sun cresting the hill, Molly sat down with a fresh cup of coffee and a piece of toast.

One sip of the coffee and her stomach heaved again. Surprised, she flattened her hand against her abdomen. Her eyes shot to the calendar, pinned to the bulletin board near the phone.

Standing, she took it down. She flipped back to September and studied the notes she'd scribbled—the reminders of meetings and dentist visits, the church women's group, PTA meeting at Clay's school. And there was that terrible night when Sam was arrested. Afterward they'd made love without protection—the one and only time.

Could she possibly be pregnant because they'd been careless just once?

Her stomach was all the answer she needed. She'd enjoyed good health while pregnant with Tom and Clay, but during the first two months she'd suffered frequent bouts of nausea. She'd been forced to give up coffee because the mere smell of it made her retch. Both times.

Molly didn't need a doctor's appointment to confirm what she already knew.

She was pregnant.

 

Russell sat in the darkness of his cabin, holding a glass of bourbon. The ice had long since melted and diluted the potency of the drink. He wished he was more of a drinking man. That way he might be able to escape this gut-wrenching pain, at least for a little while. All he needed was a few hours' respite so he could sleep.

Since he'd learned of Pearl's death, he hadn't slept an entire night; he woke up frequently, often hourly. Nightmares, grief and tension hounded him the minute he closed his eyes. Once exhaustion dragged him into a troubled sleep, he'd wake abruptly, Pearl's screams echoing in his ears. More likely they were his own.

The sheriff had phoned late the night before to tell him about the most recent discovery. Although Russell had no official connection with the murder investigation, he'd been allowed to visit the site.

Afterward he'd had no doubt left that the remains were Pearl's. The shallow grave had been unearthed by wild animals, and human bones were scattered in a half-mile radius. An hour after he arrived, he'd driven directly to his cabin. He hadn't been there since the murder. Too many memories. Too much pain. He still hadn't been sure he was ready to handle the place, but he'd been so tired and the cabin so close. Here, he wouldn't need to deal with anyone.

If he had it to do over again, there were so many things he'd change. The regrets stacked up till they reached halfway to the heavens. His fingers were numb with cold, and Russell raised the glass to his lips and gulped down the alcohol.

Soon he felt groggy, but not groggy enough. A so-called friend, offering to help him through this difficult time, had given him a handful of sleeping pills. Russell hadn't wanted them, but now he was tempted. He'd been awake all night following Maynard's call about what the hunters had found. This morning, in the woods, he'd watched deputies scoop up Pearl's remains and shove them into a black plastic garbage bag. That had shattered whatever little peace he'd managed to achieve in the weeks since her murder. He withdrew the brown bottle from his coat pocket and spilled two capsules into his palm.

Sleep. He'd sell his soul for a single night's sleep. Without another thought he tossed the pills into his mouth. It didn't take long for the combination of drugs and alcohol to begin having the desired effect.

Moving into the bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and sank onto the mattress, his back to the wall. When he found the energy, he got up, pulled back the covers and climbed between the cool sheets. Almost immediately his bare feet encountered a silky nightgown.

Pearl's. From her last visit.

With a sense of unbearable grief, he reached for the long peach-colored gown and held it against his heart. He closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion.

When he awoke, the room was cold and dark, so dark it was virtually impossible to see. The gown Russell had pressed against his heart was now wrapped around his upper body. He flung it aside and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

As he lay there, eyes squeezed shut, the scent of roses, the French perfume Pearl had loved, drifted toward him. His need for her was so great his senses had actually invented it, fulfilling his desperate longing for the woman he'd lost.

The lingering aroma of roses grew stronger. Russell knew that the minute he opened his eyes it'd be gone. He was determined to savor it while he could. Fantasy, whatever, he didn't care. Not if it brought him close to Pearl for even a minute.

Pain tightened his chest and he wondered what he'd say to Pearl if he had the opportunity to speak to her one last time. Even though he knew she was dead, he could pretend she was there with him. He wanted her lying at his side as she so often had in the past.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered, his voice shaking with emotion. “We could have made it work….”

The scent of her perfume seemed even more potent. He kept his eyes closed as he struggled to banish from his mind the horror of her last few minutes on earth. These were the thoughts that had tormented him for weeks. She must have been in horrible pain, experienced terrible fear. He hoped with all his heart that she hadn't been bound, that she'd put up a fight. Dear God, he couldn't bear to think about it any longer. Part of him died with her every time he imagined her final minutes.