Open Country (4 page)

Molly nodded.

Frowning, he looked around. “Don’t you have kids? I don’t want any kids running through here, messing with my things.”

“They’re with Effie—Reverend Beckworth’s wife—at the church.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Go back to them. There’s nothing to do here.” Leaning over the patient, he pushed up one lid then the other.

Molly noted the dark brown pupil of the patient’s left eye was marginally larger than that of the right. Was he bleeding in his brain?

“Is it true?” she asked. “He’s dying?”

The doctor nodded, a single dip of his head as though he had little energy to waste on extravagant motion. Pulling a stethoscope from his apron pocket, he fitted the earpieces into his ears and held the diaphragm against the patient’s chest. “If the head wound doesn’t kill him, gangrene in his arm probably will.” Motioning her to silence, he tilted his head and listened. After a moment, he removed the earpieces and returned the stethoscope to his pocket.

“You’re sure of it?” Molly persisted.

With a huff of impatience, he swung toward her, moving his entire body a quarter circle so he could glare at her with his one eye. It was a sad eye, more gray than blue, with a downward slant that hinted at more than mere weariness. “The man was almost crushed. He shouldn’t even be alive. Goddamned railroads.” His good eye narrowed in speculation. “What’s it to you? Who are you?”

Molly hesitated, knowing the lie she was about to tell would damn her forever.

Could she do it? Should she? Would it even be legal?

Doubt swirled through her mind. Her stomach knotted and acid burned hot in her throat. She took a step back, then thought of the children and stopped.

She had no choice. She had to have that money.

God forgive me,
she prayed silently. Then hiking her chin, she looked Murray in the eye. “I’m Molly McFarlane,” she said. “Henry and I were to be married.”

“IT’S NOT RIGHT,” EFFIE ANNOUNCED. “YOU MUST DO something.”

Reverend Thaddeus Beckworth set aside his worn Bible, removed his spectacles, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Ever since his wife had settled into her rocker across from his, he had been aware of her growing agitation. She had made certain he was aware. A few sighs, then energetic rocking that grew steadily more vigorous until her heels bounced off the floor with enough force to send her prized collection of Chinese porcelain song-birds dancing atop the fireplace mantle.

It was a game they played—how long could she maneuver for his attention without actually asking for it, versus how long could he hold out before putting aside whatever he was doing and capitulating. It was a game without malice, founded on his desire to avoid conflict and her need to seek it. If there was one thing Effie Beckworth thrived on, it was a good, rousing crisis.

And today had been rife with crises. Injured passengers milling about, children to mother, mouths to feed. Now all the stranded travelers had been moved from the church into rooms at the hotel, the children were back with their mother, and Effie had nothing to do but bedevil him. Bless her heart.

Smiling fondly at the woman who had been his helpmate for thirty-two years and who, despite her meddling ways, had a kind and giving heart, Thaddeus said, “Certainly, my dear. Do what about what?”

“About Molly McFarlane and those poor little tykes.” Her heels thumped on the floor as the rocker came to a stop. “You must talk to the railroad people, Mr. Beckworth. To that solicitor, Mr. Harkness, before it’s too late.”

Ah. Yet another crisis.
“And what shall I talk to him about, my dear?”

“The man in the infirmary.” Leaning forward, his wife lowered her voice to gossip level. “He’s dying. And I think the railroad should pay him, don’t you?”

“For dying?”

“Exactly.” She sat back, looking pleased that he understood. “If they pay the other dead men, they should pay him too. Don’t you agree?”

“But he’s not yet dead, Effie.”

“He soon will be. Harkness said so himself. And what will happen to those babies then?” She paused to dab at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief she’d pulled from who-knows-where. Then thrusting sentiment aside, she hiked her chins and puffed out her nicely rounded chest. “You must talk to them, Mr. Beckworth. Show them the error of their ways. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

Preaching to the preacher
. With a sigh, Thaddeus replaced his spectacles and opened the Bible. “Of course, dear. I shall speak to Mr. Harkness tomorrow.”

“Or I could, I suppose,” she offered thoughtfully. “I am more familiar with the particulars, after all. Perhaps he’s still at the hotel directing passengers.”

“Yes, well . . . perhaps . . .”

Her smile was grace itself. “As always, Mr. Beckworth, you know best.”

“Do I? I’m never sure.” And he still had no idea what she was talking about.

 

 

ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE EMPIRE HOTEL IN THE TWO-room suite the railroad had assigned to them, Molly stared out at the moonlit face of El Capitan, the tallest peak in the Guadalupe Range north of El Paso. It was an uninspired view, notable only in that it was best viewed at night, if at all, and it was so different from the country she had left behind. No long-limbed oaks or fragrant magnolias here, only scrub and cactus with a few cottonwoods along a creek. This wasn’t a sheltering country. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t be here long. By this time tomorrow, she would either be moving west with the children or behind bars.

Nothing was going right. Harkness was dragging his heels on her claim, she was almost out of money, and Charlie’s nightmares were getting worse. Maybe she should have told Effie Beckworth the truth instead of lying about a fiancé. Or left the children in her care and tried to draw the follower off their trail. She could run faster alone.

But run where? And just what was so important to Fletcher that he would send trackers after them? If she knew what he wanted, she would wrap it in a bow and hand it to him. This endless flight was taking its toll on all of them.

Motion drew her gaze. Across from the hotel, a man in a wide-brimmed hat and dark coat came out of the saloon doorway. He stood for a moment, glancing down the street in one direction then the other, as if looking for someone. Then hitching his trousers, he stepped off the boardwalk and started toward the hotel.

Molly drew back then realized that with the room dark, he couldn’t see her.

Halfway across, he stopped and removed his hat. Light from the hotel windows revealed that he wasn’t old, nor did he appear to be disfigured, so he wasn’t the man Penny had seen in Omaha and later in Utah. Maybe he was someone new. Fletcher had enough money to send a hundred trackers after her and the children.

A woman came into view. She spoke to the man, then he took her elbow and escorted her back across the street, where they disappeared into Mrs. Haversham’s Restaurant and Tea Room. When they didn’t emerge after several minutes, Molly allowed herself to relax, although she kept watch at the window, just in case.

Always on guard, never at rest. How much longer could she keep this up? She couldn’t run forever. But she could never go back home either.

Had he put flowers on Sister’s grave? Did he suspect why Molly had spirited his stepchildren away in the middle of the night? He must. Daniel Fletcher wasn’t a stupid man. That she had eluded him this long was a miracle in itself. And now their very lives rested on a stranger’s death. The thought sickened her.

“What’s wrong?”

Startled, she turned to see Charlie in the doorway that led into the bedroom. As always, she felt a jolt that seemed to compress her lungs. It was like looking into her sister’s face—those same auburn curls and wide green eyes, that same frightened, anxious expression that always cut so deeply into her heart. It was like a reproach from the grave.

She was out of ideas. Out of strength. Out of money. If the railroad didn’t reimburse her for the cost of this room and their meals while the tracks were being repaired, they would be out on the street. Where was she to find words of hope for this lost child when she was so weary and frightened herself?

She forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Lifting a hand to her cheek, Molly was surprised to feel dampness. She thought she had lost the capacity for tears long ago.

“Is it the monster?” Charlie blurted out. “Has he found us?”

“There is no monster, Charlie.”

“There is too! I saw him!” His eyes darted around the room.

“You can’t stop him. No one can. He’ll kill us just like—” His words stopped abruptly.

“Who, Charlie?” she pressed. “Who is this monster and whom did he kill?”

Before Charlie could answer, six-year-old Penny appeared at his shoulder, her blond hair a tousled mop, her brown eyes bleary with sleep. “Don’t shout, Charlie. You know Mama doesn’t like it when you shout.”

Her brother rounded on her, his face twisted in anguish. “Mama’s dead, you big baby. So is Grandpa. And I can shout if I want!” With a sob, he ran back into the bedroom.

“I’m not a baby,” Penny yelled after him. “You are!” When she got no response, she turned to Molly. “I’m gonna tell. He’ll get a spanking for sure.” Looking pleased at that prospect, she stuck her thumb into her mouth and stared solemnly at Molly as if waiting for . . . what?

Trapped in despair, Molly stared back, wishing she had someone to tattle to, someone who would soothe all her worries and make everything right again.

 

 

“THAT WRETCHED MAN! HE WON’T DO IT.”

Thaddeus looked up from his half-finished sermon, surprised to see it was dark already. Effie stood in the doorway of his study, feet braced, fists on hips, ready to do battle. Hopefully, not with him. “Who won’t do what, my dear?”

“Mr. Harkness. I just talked to him at the hotel. The scoundrel won’t pay her.”

Molly McFarlane—the woman with the children. Thaddeus set aside his pen, relieved he wasn’t the cause of his wife’s ire. It was regrettable they had never had children of their own—it would have provided additional targets for Effie’s energetic attention.

She swept in, a calico whirlwind of maternal purpose, and flung herself into one of the doily-laden chairs fronting his desk. “It defies belief, Mr. Beckworth. Simply because they’re not yet married, Mr. Harkness says the railroad isn’t obliged to pay her a widow’s portion. The very idea.”

Thaddeus marveled at her reasoning. “They may have a point, my dear, insomuch as she’s neither wife nor widow and the man in question isn’t dead.”

“He soon will be, and then what will become of her and the children?” She pressed her hanky to the heaving bosom he so admired. “We must act now. If we wait until he dies, it will be too late. No, no. You know what you must do.”

“I do?”

“Of course you do.” Lifting her topmost chin, she gave him a smile that would make any God-fearing man sweat. “You must marry them as soon as possible. Tonight. Then when he dies, the railroad will have to pay her the settlement.”

Thaddeus regarded his wife with a growing sense of alarm.

“Don’t give me that look, sir. It’s the only sensible solution.”

“But Effie, the man couldn’t participate in his own vows. I don’t think it would even be legal.”

“No matter,” she said, waving aside ethics as easily as shooing a fly. “Who’s to question it? The railroad?” That smile again. “And risk being accused of cheating a widow and her fatherless children out of their fair portion? I think not.”

Frightening, that’s what she was. It occurred to Thaddeus that if his wife had been allowed command, the War of the Rebellion wouldn’t have lasted a month.

“We must do this, Mr. Beckworth. For the children.”

“The children?”

“Those poor dears. It quite breaks my heart.”

Thaddeus sighed, accepting the inevitable.

Reading that as assent, she shot to her feet. “I shall fetch them now.”

“Now?”

“He’s quite ill. We haven’t much time. Hurry along.”

 

 

AN HOUR LATER, IN THE INFIRMARY IN THE BACK OF DR. Murray’s house, Thaddeus reluctantly presided over the quiet ceremony that united Molly McFarlane and Henry Wilkins in holy matrimony.

The bride wore a faded brown dress, a blue shawl loaned to her by Effie, and a stricken expression. The groom wore fresh bandages and a rumpled, too-small infirmary nightshirt. Thankfully the children were not witness to this charade, and remained asleep at the hotel in the care of the church’s choir director. Effie and Dr. Murray stood solemn witness at the foot of the bed.

The exchange of vows took less than five minutes.

Not exactly an exchange insomuch as the groom was in a stupor and unable to speak, but the ritual seemed to please Effie, and for that, Thaddeus was grateful. He’d learned long ago his happiness was heavily dependent upon hers.