Marrying Molly. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ was Granny Dusty standing behind the storm door in Wranglers and rawhide boots and a tight plaid Western shirt. She shoved open the storm door, too. “Wait till I tell you. Baby doll, you are not going to believe this.”

      Tate, Molly thought, her stomach knotting and the tension yanking tight between her shoulders again. Oh, God, what had he done? Had he been there, had he had it out with Granny?

      Granny Dusty had a reputation, pretty much deserved, as the man-hatingest woman in Throckleford County. She had trusted one man in her life—the wrong one. A rich rancher from Montana, he’d come to town to do business with the Tates. The rancher knocked up Dusty with Molly’s mother, Dixie, and then promptly went back to his wife on his big spread outside of Bozeman. After the rancher from Montana, Dusty O’Dare had no more use for men.

      “What happened?” Molly asked weakly.

      “That fool mother of yours says she’s marrying Ray, that’s what.”

      Not about Tate. Molly’s stomach unknotted and her heart stopped trying to break out of her rib cage.

      Granny continued with bitter relish, “She called here an hour ago, that mother of yours, all atwitter with the news. I ask you, sweetness, has she lost what is left of her mind? Ray Deekins is a no-count. He hasn’t had a job since the Reagan years. And your mother is forty-six. You’d think she’d have grown out of all this love foolishness by now. Isn’t it enough that she’s let him move in with her? Can’t she just support his lazy butt and leave it at that? Does she have to go and get herself legally committed to him? What is the matter with—?”

      “Granny.”

      Granny glared—but at least she stopped talking.

      “You think maybe I could get in the house before you start in about Ray?”

      Granny Dusty smiled then, the network of wrinkles in her leathery cheeks scoring all the deeper. “Why sure, sugar, you just come on in.” She held the storm door wider. Molly mounted the steps and entered the house. Beyond the door, the savory smell of fried meat filled the air. “Made your favorite,” said Granny. “Chicken-fried steak.”

      Though as a rule Molly loved a good chicken-fried steak as much as the next person, that night her stomach clenched tight again at the thought. “Maybe later. I have a sick headache. Think I’d better lie down.”

      Now Granny got worried. “Honey pie, you got a fever? Want me to—”

      “No. Really. Just a little rest, that’ll do me fine.” Molly headed for the house’s one tiny hallway and her bedroom, the front one that faced the walk.

      Granny followed right after her, causing Molly to have to remind herself that most of the time, she actually enjoyed having her grandmother living in her house. “I’ll keep your supper warm for you,” Granny said fondly as Molly sank to the edge of the bed and slipped off her sandals.

      “Great.” She forced a wan smile and flopped back onto the pillows, stretching her legs out and settling in, letting her eyes drift shut. “Thanks…”

      “Maybe a cool cloth for your poor, tired eyes?” suggested Granny.

      Molly’s smile widened and she let out a soft chuckle. “What are you, a mind reader?”

      “Be back in a flash.”

      Molly heard the water running and a minute later her grandmother’s capable hands smoothed a lovely cool washcloth over her eyes. “Um. Perfect…”

      “Oh,” Granny said. “Almost forgot. That Tate Bravo called. Told him you weren’t in. Said I’d give you the message, but he shouldn’t hold his breath waitin’ for you to call back.”

      Molly lay very still with the cloth hiding her eyes as Granny cackled in satisfaction at having put the rich and powerful Tate Bravo in his place. Granny reveled in the council-meeting wrangling that went on between Molly and Tate. She loved to go on about all the ways Molly had bested “that Tate.” She thought her granddaughter’s dealings with Tate were strictly about politics and the betterment of the town. As of yet Molly had failed to bring her granny up to speed on the rolling-around-in-bed, ending-up-pregnant part of her and Tate’s relationship.

      “Thanks, Granny,” Molly whispered, turning her head toward the wall. At least, she thought, he’d left her alone at the shop.

      “Rest now,” said Granny softly. A moment later, Molly heard the door click shut behind her.

      Tate had called.

      Unbidden, Molly felt the all-too-familiar tug of longing. It was awful. She wanted him so much—despite knowing that he was the absolute worst person in the world for her.

      She let out a long sigh. She would have to call him back.

      Eventually.

      But not right now. Now, she was taking slow, even breaths. She was commanding her headache to pass and her stomach to stop churning. For the time being, she was resting right here in the peace of her own bedroom and she wasn’t going to think about Tate Bravo or the baby or any of that.

      For a half hour or so, Molly lay there on her bed, repeating soothing words in her head, breathing in and out slowly and deeply. She hovered on the verge of dropping off to sleep at last when she heard the front door open.

      “Hey. Get along. Now. Go on,” Granny called from out on the porch. There was a moment of silence and then, “Get the hell away from here, now. I have warned you and I will not be warning you again.”

      A man’s voice answered from down the walk—Tate’s? Molly wasn’t sure. Whoever he was, she couldn’t make out his words. She removed the wet cloth from over her eyes and set it on the nightstand.

      “You remember, I warned you,” said Granny. Molly sat up.

      “Listen here, now,” the man argued. “Put that thing down.”

      Molly groaned. It was Tate, all right. He was closer to the house, coming up the driveway. She swung her feet to the floor.

      Granny said, “Not another damn step.”

      Tate said, “I’m not leaving till I talk to—” A thunderous blast cut him off.

      Granny must have fired her shotgun at him.

       Chapter Three

       M olly flew off the bed, flung back the bedroom door, took the hall in a step and a half and shot across the small living room in four big strides. The front door stood open. Through the storm door, she could see her granny, who was muttering to herself and chambering another round. Molly shoved open the storm door. “Granny. Don’t you put another round in that thing.”

      “Tell this crazy woman to put that gun down,” Tate shouted from behind the big oak by the front walk.

      Granny, who had the gun broken open and the barrel pointed at the porch boards for the moment, grumbled loudly, “Now look what you did. You went and woke her up.”

      “What is going on out here?” Molly cried.

      “Gettin’ rid СКАЧАТЬ