For a few minutes they idly discussed her returning strength. That she could actually hobble a short distance, holding onto the support of accommodating furniture, as long as she put no weight on the casted ankle. That she still seemed to get inordinately tired and needed plenty of rest. That she was anxious to be fully recovered, and back to her old self, so she could take up the routine of her life once more.
“The bruises on my face are almost all gone, you’ll notice,” she said, dimpling. “I’m not quite so ugly any more.”
“You were never ugly. You were always the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Uh—barrin’ your sisters, o’ course.”
“Of course.”
Their next topic covered the weather, ad infinitum (always a safe subject when anyone is reaching): the past, the current, the future of fall and winter. Bits and pieces about the town came next, from buildings to residents to business itself.
Finally Molly moved into the personal, to thank Paul with all her heart for what he had done. He had rescued her that first time, after her disastrous wedding night; and he had rescued her again a second time in the woods. She had no words enough to express her gratitude.
“Gratitude, huh?” A certain set to his mouth made one wonder if that was the emotion he had been hoping for. And might reject.
“And then you saved Painter for me, as well. Poor old horse. Quinn—Quinn treated him terribly. And if not for the warning he gave when the tree came down toward us, and for his sudden movement, I would have been killed.”
“I figured that was it,” Paul said quietly. He was leaning forward in the blue upholstered chair that seemed too small and delicate for his big frame, elbows propped on thighs and hat being turned slowly around and around in his supple hands. “Figured he deserved a second chance, too. Molly, you do know that Quinn is dead and buried, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Camellia told me. I—I wish I could shed tears for him, Paul. But, selfishly, I’ve been too busy shedding tears for myself. For my stupidity, and for dragging so many generous people into my troubles.”
“Molly—”
“It’s true, Paul, and I can’t deny it.” She shifted position upon the settee, to ease the ankle that had begun to ache. “I’ve been a very spoiled little girl. Do you think it’s possible to grow up and mature overnight, when circumstances demand it?”
“I reckon it’s possible to do just about anything you set your mind to. And see what you want outa life, and continue on so you’re happy.”
“Thank you for that. I—I’m really making a stab at it.” Her limpid ga
ze, as she raised those lovely wet turquoise eyes to look at him, might have been compared to a water lily, bedecked by dew.
“Whatever you are,” said Paul gruffly, uncomfortably, “is enough for me.”
Molly caught a breath and held it, as her heart began to beat a little more rapidly. “I’m not sure—what do you—what can you—?”
“D’ you trust me, Molly?”
“Oh, Paul!” The dew deepened and overflowed. “I would trust you with—I have trusted you with—my very life!”
A muscle flickered along the ridge of his jaw; clearly he was using every power of restraint to keep from moving too quickly with whatever he had in mind. “But d’ you trust me to take care of you, to watch over you, to never hurt you as—as you’ve been hurt?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Well, then.” His face suddenly appeared ten years younger, as if a whole mountain of weight had just slid off his shoulders. And he grinned. A broad, full-fledged grin of boyish good looks and charm, such as she couldn’t recall ever seeing before. “Can I come sit b’side you, Molly?”
“Paul.” Feeling as she did, Molly didn’t want to—couldn’t bear to—be forced to fend him off. Important matters must be settled. “What are you expecting of me?”
He lifted one sturdy shoulder. “Nothin’; only what you are, yourself. I just wanna talk some more. And hold you.”
“But I can’t—we can’t—there’s all this—ugly stuff going on, in the background...”
“Yeah. But most people have some ugly stuff they have to handle somehow. If they can find the right person to match up with in life, why, that ugly stuff just sorta goes away.”
For every one of Molly’s points of dispute, the man came back stating a counterpoint. She was beginning to splutter against such calm, dispassionate assurance. “Are you—do you mean—planning for a future? Have you forgotten that my husband has just been buried? All these details... And—and—you’ve said nothing of love.”
The flap of his hand deemed that negligible. “Love.”
“I thought I was in love with Quinn,” she recalled wistfully. “But that was just a girl’s silly romantic dream. I think—I do believe I’m ready for the real thing, soon.”
“As to that,” the grin, if possible, stretched even farther, “it’ll take care of itself. I’ve loved you since I first spotted you steppin’ down from that high wagon you rode in on, near three months ago.”