Why? Was it her? Had she ever been held in a man’s arms?
With a shock, she realized she hadn’t. Not truly. Her father had occasionally given her a one-armed hug, a brief, friendly squeeze of camaraderie rather than deep affection. Papa had been a passionate man, but not a demonstrative one. She’d understood and accepted that.
But with Hank, well, she wanted more.
As if it had a will of its own, her hand came up to rest against his wide chest. She watched her fingers splay as she pressed her palm against the soft flannel of his shirt, seeking the muffled vibration of the heart beating within. “Just come back.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked up. And while her mind floated in emotion, her body took action on its own, her fingers sliding up his chest and around his neck to comb through the crisp curls on his nape. Pulling him closer, she rose on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his.
She tasted coffee, and caught a drift of his pine-scented shaving soap, mingled with the tang of old smoke and the mustiness of his shearling jacket. Tentatively, she ran the tip of her tongue over the seam of his lips, then drew back.
But he followed her, kissing her again, then again. By the time he lifted his head, they were both a bit out of breath. “Jesus,” he said in a long exhale. “How could I have forgotten that?”
And with those words, guilt stole the joy away. She stared back at him in mute misery, unspoken words clogging her throat. The urge to blurt out the truth overwhelmed her, and she knew she couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“Hank, I need to tell you—”
The bang of the door cut her off as Brady came in with a whoosh of cold air. “There you are,” he said, slamming the door shut, then stomping mud off his boots onto the rug inside the threshold. “The horses are saddled. Morning, Molly.”
Reason returned and the moment passed. Molly stepped back from Hank and brushed a hand over her hair. Now was not the time for confession. She couldn’t send him off on a long, hard ride with worry—or anger—on his mind.
At least, that was the excuse she gave herself for her continued silence.
Hank studied her for a moment. Then adjusting the saddlebag over his shoulder, he gave her a final nod and followed his brother out the door.
Molly watched them ride out, thinking she still hadn’t gotten her hug and sensing time was running out.
THE DAY OF THE TRIP INTO VAL ROSA DAWNED CRISP AND clear.
Hoping the weather would hold for the few days they intended to be gone, Jessica and Molly helped the Garcia sisters herd the children into a high canvas-covered wagon with wheels that could be fitted with sled runners if necessary—another of Hank’s innovations. Bundled in blankets and fortified with the two baskets of food Iantha had packed, they headed down the drive for the six-hour wagon ride to Val Rosa.
The countryside spread before them like an illustration in a storybook. Rolling hills dotted with glistening patches of snow, sugar-frosted evergreens, soaring white-capped mountains reaching into the cloudless sky. Distant herds of elk and mule deer browsed at the mouths of the canyons. Overhead, eagles and hawks rode the currents looking for smaller prey. Occasionally their wagon scattered small groups of cows and calves from their path, and once along the tree line, Charlie spotted either a buffalo or a very big bear. As the day passed, the sun dipped lower toward the mountaintops, and the angle of sunlight highlighted an intricate maze of tracks crisscrossing the remaining snow. Penny thought it looked like a giant, sparkly spider web.
They made good time, and even though clouds began to build to the north and the wind picked up, they arrived on schedule in midafternoon. The warm weather had the town bustling, the muddy streets lined with wagons and carts, the boardwalks filled with people restocking winter supplies and making Christmas purchases. True to their promises, Hank and Brady awaited them in the Val Rosa Hotel lobby.
The Wilkins family took over the top floor—Brady and Jessica in a parlor suite, their children sharing rooms with the Garcia sisters. Hank had his own room, and Penny and Charlie shared a suite with Molly. She wanted them near in case Charlie needed her, although since the night after the hunt and his talk with Hank, he hadn’t been troubled by nightmares. But she also wanted them close in case Fletcher had tracked them this far.
After sending the children off with the Garcias, Molly freshened up, then stood at the window of their corner room, studying the street below. She saw neither Fletcher nor the scarred man Penny said she’d seen in Omaha and later in Utah. But she did notice the Wilkins riders lounging here and there on the boardwalk within shouting distance of the hotel, and felt safer knowing they were there.
The family took an early evening meal in a private parlor off the dining room. After they ate, Jessica, who knew nothing about Fletcher or his trackers, suggested they take a turn along the boardwalk before the shops closed for the night.
Molly was about to offer excuses when Hank pulled her aside. “It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “If Fletcher is here, he’ll have to get through six men to get to you, and I won’t let that happen.”
“You’ll stay close?”
He gave a crooked grin. “As close as you’ll let me.”
She looked away, her cheeks warm, a smile tugging at her lips. For a man who didn’t talk much, he certainly knew how to charm.
The evening was crisp but not overly cold, with a gentle breeze just strong enough to clear the air of wood smoke but not harsh enough to chill. Wearing an outrageous ribbon-and-feather-bedecked hat almost the size of a small wagon wheel, Jessica led them past the shops like the proud flagship of a grand flotilla, escorted by her formidable husband, their children, and the Garcia sisters.
The town was in full Christmas celebration. On a large wooden platform in front of the corner building that housed The Peoples Bank stood the town Christmas tree, a twenty-foot-tall blue Douglas fir topped by a tin angel. All the ornaments decorating the tree were made of wood and tin, and after dark, the dozens of candles in wooden hoops that hung from the tips of the branches lit up the boardwalk. It was magical.
The storefronts were dressed up as well, with garlands of spruce in the windows, as well as crocheted snowflakes and tin stars and little bouquets of dried spices and flowers hanging from the beams. The scents of pine and spiced cider and cinnamon sticks filled the air. The children were agog with excitement.
The Wilkins family was well known and obviously well liked, if the number of people calling greetings and giving friendly waves was any indication. Or perhaps that was just curiosity about Hank’s wife. It was apparent news of his marriage had reached Val Rosa. Amid all the stares and well-wishes, Molly felt like a prize cabbage. No one was rude, of course, not with Hank looming so attentively by her side, but after years of being invisible, she found all the attention a bit unnerving.
Perhaps sensing Molly’s unease, Hank steered her and the children away from curious eyes and into Milford’s Emporium and General Store, where he bought strings of rock candy for the children and a paper cone of sugared nuts for Molly. While Hank and the children wandered the aisles, Molly made a careful study of the skeins of yarn on the back wall, thinking she might knit hats and scarves for the children for Christmas. Pulling out her coin purse, she counted the few coins she had left. Just enough. Satisfied, she closed the purse and looked up to find Hank watching her, a troubled frown on his face.
“Thinking to buy something?” he asked.
Avoiding his eyes, she tucked her near-empty purse back into her coat pocket. “Yarn. The children could use warm hats.” Picking up a skein of green yarn and another of yellow, she held them up. “Which do you think Charlie would prefer?”
He studied them a moment, then shrugged. “The red. More manly.”
The red?
She frowned at the twists of yarn she held, but before she could question him about it, he said, “Are those all the coins you have, Molly?” When she didn’t answer, his frown deepened into a scowl. “Have I been that stingy with you?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that . . . well . . . lately there’s been no need.”
“I’m not a miser,” he said gruffly, reaching into his pocket. “You shouldn’t be without spending money. And you shouldn’t have to ask me for it.” Before she could stop him, he dumped a handful of coins into her hand. “Go buy what you need for yourself and the children.”
When she started to protest, he closed her fingers over the coins. “It’s Christmas, for crissakes. If you won’t get something for yourself, buy presents for the children. For everybody.”
The coins felt heavy in her hand. There were probably enough to keep her and the children for a month, maybe more. Out of habit, she almost stuffed them into her pocket as insurance against the hungry days ahead.
“There’s more if you need it.”
Kind, generous Hank. She had stolen his name. Why not his coin?
Filled with self-disgust, she put the money away. “Thank you.”
While Hank took the children to the feed store, she made her purchases—a beautifully painted tin of imported tea for Jessica, a braided leather hatband for Brady, and a book on inventions for Hank. In addition to the hats and scarves she planned to knit, she bought rag dolls for Penny and Abigail, toy soldiers for Charlie and Ben, and taffy and apples and oranges for all their stockings. For the Garcia sisters, she purchased lengths of cloth and matching ribbons, for Dougal, a pair of warm gloves in case he ever ventured outside, and for Consuelo and Iantha, bright calico aprons. As she paid for her purchases, she asked the proprietor who in town did small-item repair.
“That would be Gruber’s Fix-It,” he said. “Across from Helen’s Haberdashery. Small place. Careful, or you’ll miss it.”
After thanking him and arranging for her purchases to be delivered to the hotel, she stepped outside into a chill gust that almost ripped her bonnet from her head. The day had faded to twilight with shadowed gray clouds hanging low in the sky. Hoping she wouldn’t run into Hank and the children, she hurried to the Fix-It Shop.
Mr. Gruber was a wiry little man with a shiny bald head, a short white beard, and startling black eyebrows. When she entered his shop, he peered over half-spectacles with the impatient expression of a man who didn’t tolerate interruptions well. Knowing he was probably anxious to close for the night, she got straight to the point. “I need parts.”
“Parts.”
She nodded. “Various sizes, more small than large, and in good condition.”
Setting aside the timepiece he’d been working on, he regarded her with a skeptical eye. “Parts. Small, not large. In good condition.”
“Yes.” She spaced her hands a foot apart. “A box of this size will do.”
He continued to stare at her as if she were speaking in tongues. Then a smile of understanding broke across his face. “You are the new wife of Hank Wilkins.”
“You know him?”
“She asks if I know him.” He rolled his eyes. “I know him. He comes all the time, touching this, touching that. So many questions. What a tinkerer, that one.” Rising from his stool, he held aside the curtain draped over a doorway behind the counter. “Come. I maybe have just the thing.”
Molly could see why Hank would find Gruber’s workroom fascinating. It was a cluttered mess of items in all stages of disrepair, stuffed onto shelves that were already overflowing with tools and parts and more parts. A tinkerer’s dream.
“Will that do?” Gruber pointed to a squat, round, wooden container the size of a small nail keg—approximately eighteen inches tall and ten inches across—that was filled to the brim with screws and springs and nuts and bolts and gears and all manner of metal and wooden parts.
“Are you sure you can spare all that?” Molly asked, mentally counting the coins she had left. “It must be very expensive.”
“For you, not so much.” He gave her a twinkling smile. “If it keeps your husband out of my shop for a while, I will consider it a wise investment.”
By the time she’d paid, made arrangements to have the keg delivered to the ranch, and exited the shop, the street was dark except for the checkerboard patterns of lamplight shining through store windows onto the wooden boardwalk. And those were fast disappearing as shopkeepers began pulling down shades and locking their doors for the night. The saloons and cantinas at either end of the main street were the only establishments that seemed to have increased their business, judging by the number of horses tied at the rails outside.
Pausing in the recessed doorway of Gruber’s shop to tighten the bow on her bonnet, Molly looked around. She saw no ominously familiar faces or lurking watchers, although two women standing in the window of Helen’s Haberdashery seemed to be staring at her. One she recognized as the storeowner, a middle-aged matron with improbably dark hair that Hank had introduced earlier when they’d passed by the shop. The blond woman she didn’t recognize.
They were definitely staring.
Molly looked to see if there was anyone else who might have drawn their interest, but she was the only one in their line of vision. It bothered her to be watched that way, and sent that rush of heightened awareness tingling beneath her skin.
Could Fletcher have sent a female tracker after them, thinking a woman might be more difficult for Molly to detect?
Growing alarmed, she tucked her head against the wind and their prying eyes and moved quickly down the boardwalk. Her footsteps sounded loud and lonely on the wooden planks. Hearing them triggered imaginings of other footsteps coming up behind her, and she quickened her pace until her breath fogged the air and frost collected damply in the bow tied at her chin.
As she passed a dark alley, she caught movement in the corner of her eye, and whipped her head around in time to see a dark shadow ducking into the darker shadows behind the building. Panic flooded her mind.