“Just as well. Trying to foist another man’s child off on me wouldn’t do wonders for our relationship.”
“I didn’t know we had a relationship,” she said in add tones.
“We don’t. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Look on the bright side—we don’t have to put up with each other for much longer.”
“It’s a small comfort,” she said bitterly.
She saw him glance over at her. He didn’t know where her fury was coming from, and she’d be damned if she’d enlighten him.
They completed the drive back to the farmhouse in brooding silence, and Patrick didn’t bother to switch off the engine when he pulled up outside the kitchen door. “I don’t need to ask whether you can look out for yourself tonight,” he said. “You’re good at that. I may not be back for dinner. If you get nervous you can always give Mrs. Morse a call. Just don’t bring any of your little playmates over. I’ll be back sooner or later and I really wouldn’t like to find you trying out whatever Dr. Turner gave you.”
“She gave me vitamins,” Molly snapped. She wanted to hit him. “And you needn’t worry about me. I’m used to being alone.”
“I’m not worried about you,” he said in a rough voice. And he drove away without another word.
Molly slammed things around the kitchen in a fine bad temper. The house was cold and empty, and for the first time she wished that her so-called aunt and uncle hadn’t chosen this Friday for their visit. Unless they left her here alone on purpose, Molly thought, suddenly frightened. She sipped at the ginger ale she had poured herself, heartily sick of cranberry juice, and stared out the window at the darkening countryside. She had had two near-fatal accidents in the last two days. Rather an uncomfortable coincidence, she thought.
With an athletic grace she hadn’t known she possessed, she swung herself up onto the scrubbed counter and sat, lost in reflection as the sun sank lower and lower behind the farm buildings. Perhaps Patrick wouldn’t be back at all tonight. Perhaps some hobo would come and finish the job on her and they would find her body in a tangle on the floor. There was something going on here, something she didn’t like, and the vague snatches of memory that were coming back to her had taken on an ominous tinge. The night of the fire was slowly coming back. She could remember her absolute fear and horror at the sight of the flames licking their way around the stable, could remember Patrick, his face lit up by the orange-red fire, fighting desperately to get in and free the poor, tortured horses. And there was someone beside her, someone laughing quietly, deep in their throat, at the horror in front of them. And she remembered when she was alone, she ran.
But this wasn’t enough to go to Patrick with. For one thing, he wouldn’t believe her; for another, she had absolutely no idea of the identity of her companion. It could even have been a woman, for all she knew.
No, there was nothing she could do until more of the past decided to reveal itself. In the meantime she could only wait, and watch out, as Toby had warned her.
She thought back to his gentle concern, knowing she should feel some sort of reassurance that someone cared. But all she could think of was the sharp, strange look in Toby’s eyes as he’d warned her about Patrick. His urgency somehow struck her as odd and eerie.
It could have been wishful thinking on her part. She didn’t want to think Patrick was capable of hurting her. But what did she really know about him, apart from the fact that half the time he seemed to despise her? He couldn’t be the one out to hurt her, could he?
Mrs. Morse thought the sun rose and set with him, but then, she was admittedly prejudiced. And everyone else Molly had met, from Toby to Aunt Ermy to old friend Willy, even to subtle remarks from Lisa. Canning, had warned her to beware of her husband.
She’d stupidly refused to listen. She was certainly not being very wise. But as she stared out the window at the coming night she knew she would continue to shut her ears. To trust her heart, even if it made no sense at all.
She finished her drink and jumped down from the high counter. It was past six, and no sign of Patrick. Perhaps he wouldn’t return tonight, she told herself, irritation simmering within her at the thought. Perhaps Lisa’s arms were too strong a temptation even for such a saint as Patrick Winters. She set the stew on the back burner and started it at a low flame. Such a noble man her husband was. She slammed the oven door. Such a considerate gentleman. She threw a handful of silverware onto the table. Such an excellent, restrained fellow. She kicked savagely at the trash can in her way.
She finally ate a furious and solitary meal at half-past eight. At that point she was beyond rage. She knew that if he came in she would hurl her plate with its scorched meat and vegetables at him without a second thought. It was probably just as well that he was nowhere to be seen.
And then she began to brood. Steadily, as she sat in front of the sputtering logs she had tried to coax into a fire. Beastie appeared at the door and elected to keep her company, and for this small, or actually quite mammoth piece of companionship, she had to be grateful.
Her nerves were on edge. She sat huddled in that great chair, her feet tucked under her, staring over her shoulder every few minutes. The hours passed slowly, so slowly, and she knew her nervousness was pure foolishness. All the doors were locked and bolted; no one could enter without her knowing it. She had no intention of letting her errant husband return to his bed without a few choice words.
She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew the grandfather dock in the hallway was chiming midnight. She stretched, and rose, some of her pique abated from the uncomfortable little nap.
“I suppose we might as well go to bed, Beastie,” she said to her companion, and he seemed to nod his massive head sagely, following her up the stairs. She gave no thought to her husband’s possible return. He could find his own way in, she thought savagely. If he bothered to return before daybreak.
She washed, brushed her teeth and changed into one of those flimsy nightgowns before climbing up into the firm confines of her ancient cherry wood bed. She was tired, angry, and troubled, and what she needed more than anything was a good night’s sleep.
She fully intended to get it.
Patrick knew just what kind of trouble he’d be in if he went home that night. The house was deserted—no one would be there but Molly. Asleep in her room, her blond hair flowing over the pillow, her mesmerizing eyes closed. As long as he waited until she was thoroughly asleep he’d be safe.
He found he was smiling in grim amusement. It was a strange situation indeed, when a man over thirty was afraid of his child bride. He hadn’t thought he was afraid of anything, but Molly scared the hell out of him.
No, it wasn’t Molly who scared him. It was the way she made him feel. Like there was a chance for them after all, when he knew only too well that love was a delusion and women were hopelessly fickle. Hadn’t his mother taught him that? Hadn’t Molly made certain he’d learned the lesson all over again?
There was no sign of Toby at the small apartment he rented over a nearby stables, a fact which under normal circumstances would have bothered Patrick. Toby was an odd one. He’d known him since they were kids, but Toby had always been a little off center, a little shy, just the slightest bit obsessive.
He had no other friends as far as Patrick knew. No love life whatsoever. So where the hell was he at twelve o’clock at night?
His apartment was locked, or Patrick would have let himself in and made himself at home.
