Heart Of India


Heart Of India


Heart Of India

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“It’s so nice to have company,” Molly said. “The cook is out for the day, and she’s not a talker.” She turned around and leaned on her counter with her arms crossed, looking like a statue.

I smiled at her. “How long have you been here?” I asked, taking another sip of tea.

Molly sighed. “Too long.” The corner of her mouth curled upward slightly.

She looked older than me but that was only by five or six years. Her hair had streaks of gray at her temples, which gave her an ageless look. A thin scar ran from her right eye down to her chin; it didn’t make her seem less attractive in any way. It made her more beautiful, if possible.

She had a round face, full lips, and bright hazel eyes. The color of the brown liquid in my cup was lighter today, probably because I wasn’t drinking much.

“How did you come to work as a cook?” I asked, turning back around and leaning on the counter facing her.

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you really want me to tell you that? You’ll think I’m crazy.”

I shrugged and set the teacup aside. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks about anything anymore. Besides, we’re friends now,” I said with a slight smile. “Tell me how you came to be a cook.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “My husband died when I was young, leaving me with three small children and no money. I took whatever job I could get just to make ends meet. At one point, I worked at a hotel near St. Louis where one of our guests, John Wylie, was staying.

One evening he came into the kitchen where I was working. He told me about this place and hired me on the spot.”

“That must’ve been exciting,” I said. “A chance to see other parts of the country, and live somewhere different?”

Molly nodded. “At first it was. After I got there, though, I found out I’d gotten myself into a bit more trouble than I bargained for. Mr. Wylie didn’t exactly pay well—if you know what I mean. So to survive, I became a thief. Not something I’m proud of.”

I thought about all the times I’d helped steal things over the years. I wondered how many others were doing the same thing if they knew that stealing was wrong.

“Why did you stop?” I asked.

“Because it was killing me inside,” Molly replied. “When I realized what was happening, I decided I would do better by my family and never again touch another dishonest penny.”

“Are your kids grown up now?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly. “They’re still growing.”

I waited for her to say more but she didn’t, so I took another sip of my tea.

I looked across the room to the door. “What happened to them?” I finally asked. “You mentioned three. Do you have two girls and a boy?”

“Three,” Molly corrected. “One girl and two boys. They are grown, but I haven’t seen any of them in a while.”

I wanted to ask where they lived if I could visit them someday, but held my tongue. This was a private subject for her.

I studied the picture on the mantel next to her, of four children in front of a large house with a wide porch and tall shutters. It couldn’t have been too long ago since their clothes matched, and their hair was neatly cut. But they were all older now, each wearing his own style of clothing, and none had a trace of a mustache.

Two men flanked the children, holding the youngest by a hand and a shoulder. One man wore a dark suit and hat, while the other wore a uniform shirt and slacks. I saw a familiar look in one of the man’s eyes.

I picked up the picture frame, trying to figure out who they were. One of the men held an umbrella over the younger girl. All the women in the picture had hats on; I wondered if the weather was cold that day. One of the older boys stood next to the woman in the middle of the picture.

His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His hands clutched a book under his chin. Molly had said it was taken on a summer day, but even in the heat of summer, that boy was shivering, and the other children had jackets on.

“It’s good to have family,” I said softly, setting the photo down. “Especially when you don’t see them very often.”

The corners of Molly’s mouth turned downward. She glanced briefly at the framed portrait then away. “We aren’t close,” she said quietly. “Not like we should be.”

After a few more moments of silence, I said, “I’m sorry.”

She smiled sadly and shrugged. “No matter how much time passes, some wounds can’t heal.”

“If you want to talk about it—”

“There’s no need for that.” She paused and lifted her teacup to her lips again, not looking up at me. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t married him. That way, if I hadn’t, none of this would’ve ever happened.”

I waited for her to explain, but she stayed silent. Instead, she set the cup down and stared into space as she sipped her tea.

“What made you change your mind?” I finally asked, curious what brought about such a drastic change from someone once as determined as Molly Wylie to stay single.

“When you marry, you’re supposed to love each other unconditionally. When it was over between us, I discovered I didn’t feel any of that for John or any other man.”

I nodded silently, understanding completely.

She picked up her teapot and poured herself another cup. We sat quietly in silence for several minutes until she sighed and said, “Mr. Wylie wasn’t the only one who loved me, though.”

A sudden chill ran down my spine and I jumped. For a moment I thought something terrible had happened, that a gunshot had ripped through the air followed by cries of pain and wails of terror. I grabbed my gun, expecting to hear the sound of running hooves outside.

But nothing stirred in the night, and no one came rushing through the door. Only the ticking clock sounded. The wind moaned outside like a thousand ghosts calling, beckoning to me.

I lowered my weapon.

I looked around, wondering why I felt so unsettled. Molly was still staring off into space. I reached out and touched her arm. “Molly?”

“What is it?”

I told myself I was being paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something evil was happening, right here in my own house.

My heart raced and I took a step toward Molly before stopping myself. No matter how bad things got with the marshal, I couldn’t let myself believe she was part of it. “Do you feel that? I don’t think the house is safe anymore.”

She shook her head, and I could tell by her expression she didn’t understand.

“You know,” I said. “Evil spirits.”

Her lips pursed together. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I tried to push the uneasiness aside but found it hard to concentrate as the sound of thunder echoed in the distance. It seemed to grow louder and closer until it drowned out every other noise inside the house. Thunder shook the windows and rattled the chandelier overhead, rattling the chains as well.

With lightning flashing in the distance, the room lit up momentarily as it poured through the shutters. I jumped back as a gust of wind swirled over us; rain fell from the sky and pelted down on the floorboards. A blast of wind pushed open the curtains; I could feel the draft coming in through the broken window.

“Did you feel that?” I whispered to Molly.

She blinked slowly, and then she turned toward me. “Yes,” she murmured. “I did feel something.” She rose and walked to the wall where she’d left her teapot. “Stay here while I check on the horses.”

While she went to investigate, I moved to the fireplace and stoked the flames, making sure it was ready to light if needed. If this storm worsened, we might be stuck there for a few hours, and I wanted us to have plenty of fuel.

A few minutes later, Molly returned to the bedroom carrying a lantern. It cast a faint orange glow against the dark walls and made it difficult to read. I glanced over at her, noticing how pale she suddenly appeared. But instead of answering my question, she sat down on the bed with her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“Something’s wrong,” I said, getting up and walking to stand beside her. “Why do you look so frightened?”

For several seconds, she remained motionless, staring at her fingers. “I don’t know… I just can’t remember.”

The words struck me like a blow. My gut knotted and my throat constricted until I could hardly speak. “You don’t remember?”

She gave me a weak smile. “That’s good because I don’t.”

***

“I’ll go back tomorrow, and hopefully Mr. Wylie will be there,” I said when Molly hung up the phone after leaving a message with his office. “Maybe he has a key and knows what happened to mine.”

She stood next to me and put her hand on my shoulder as we watched the storm rage outside our window. The wind whipped across the plains sending sheets of water swirling around and slamming against the house.

Thunder crashed loudly again, shaking the very foundations. Lightning cracked and flashed in the distance, and then another blast of wind swept into the room, pushing aside the curtains and rattling the furniture.

As the wind died down, I turned away and looked at Molly who had gone white as a ghost. “Something is terribly wrong.”

She nodded without saying anything else, but I knew what she was thinking—that something horrible had happened to the marshal. And if it were true, it wasn’t just his death that troubled her but the possibility that Molly might have been involved.

My thoughts drifted to what I would say to him. What I should say to make it clear is that I never intended for him to die. That I was sorry and wished I could take it all back if only I’d known what I was doing.

My stomach clenched and I felt sick. It was too late to undo what I’d done. The consequences of my actions had already played themselves out.

When Molly spoke softly in a voice so low I could barely hear her, it sounded almost like an apology. “I’m sorry, Alex. Sorry, I brought us together. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, least of all someone who was such a kind man and…”

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace as I fought back the tears. Her body felt frail against my chest, and she shivered from the cold air blowing through the broken window.

“It’s all right,” I whispered to her. “No matter what happens, I still love you.”

She leaned her face against my shirt and sobbed quietly as she cried. With one arm around her waist, I reached behind me and picked up a throw rug and covered her with it; then I turned to look at the empty space by the fireplace where we’d planned to sit and talk. I thought about our plans to build a life together. To raise a family.

And somewhere out there… Molly’s parents, my father, and the marshal’s family. All of them would be worried sick. They might even suspect I was somehow responsible for his death, or at the very least, they would blame me for causing trouble, maybe even a scandal. For some reason, the idea of their disapproval made me want to cry.

Molly pulled away and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “Let’s get out of this house,” she said.

We both headed for the door and I paused to look outside. The wind had dropped, and it was calm once more. We hurried toward the barn, leaving everything behind except for our saddlebags and guns.

Once inside, we saddled the horses and rode toward town, not saying much other than exchanging a few quiet words now and then. Neither of us seemed inclined to discuss the marshal’s murder, which was fine with me. Instead of talking about it, I found myself thinking about Molly’s family and wondering how they would react to what we had done.

If they were upset, I imagined Molly would try to smooth things over as best she could. But when I thought about my own situation, I realized that if my mother found out about the affair, it was entirely possible she might turn me out or send me to a seminary where I’d have to live among priests who would be forced to shun me because of my past.

I glanced at Molly again and wondered whether I would have a choice but to leave and never see her again.

At the edge of town, we dismounted and tied our horses to the hitching post outside the general store while I went inside to buy two bottles of whiskey and a loaf of bread. Molly asked if she could wait in the car for a minute, which I didn’t mind since it was chilly outside, and I was glad for the time to myself.

After handing the clerk my money, I walked outside and sat down on the tailgate of the truck where I took a sip of whiskey before opening a bottle for Molly to join me. Then I handed her one glass and took off the top of mine.

As soon as I drank half of it, I turned and opened the glove box to retrieve my flask of rum, which I’d brought along because it always seemed to help settle my stomach.

The first sip of the liquor burned my throat and warmed my stomach. I held it in my mouth for a moment and then swallowed the rest of it.

Once again, I found myself reflecting on what I’d done to Molly’s family; about the lies, I’d told and the people I’d deceived. The last thing I wanted to do was drink alone in the back of a pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, but after everything I’d put her through, I deserved every drop of whiskey it would give me.

As the whiskey warmed my body, I started feeling drowsy. My head bobbled, and my thoughts became hazy and unclear. When I heard Molly call out to me, it startled me and made me feel disoriented. “Alex?”

“I’m here,” I mumbled and rubbed my hands over my eyes. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure? You’re acting funny.” She moved closer to me, and then knelt beside my leg. I looked at her and smiled faintly as she placed her hand on my cheek.

“You don’t look well. Can we go inside and talk about what happened?”

With the liquor working its way through my system, I couldn’t think straight; so instead of answering her question, I simply nodded as a wave of dizziness swept over me.

When I tried to stand up, I staggered like a drunk, which caused me to lose my balance. Molly grabbed at me, but she wasn’t quick enough; she stumbled backward and fell onto her bottom, just missing the edge of the bed of the truck. Before she could get up, I caught hold of her shoulders and steadied her. Then I got her into the passenger seat and helped her sit down with her back against the door.

She rested her head on the door and closed her eyes while I lifted the hood of the car, popped open the radiator cap, and poured water from one of the empty jugs over the engine block.

“What are you doing?” she asked and then coughed as she raised herself up to take another swig from the jug. “Do you think we’ll be able to make it home?” she muttered after taking a swallow.

“Yes. Just keep pouring water over the radiator until all the ice has melted.”

While Molly worked the radiator, I leaned against the front fender of the truck and watched her pour more water over the engine block. The sight of her in this position brought to mind the way she’d been lying in the bed of the truck earlier today when I’d lain beside her.

With her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed, her hair flowing freely, and wearing only a pair of thin cotton shorts, she looked beautiful. I wished she was sitting next to me now, so we could share a bottle of whiskey and talk about what happened that night in the marshal’s house.

I’d rather have talked to her than sit alone in the back of a truck drinking whiskey by myself—but even if she had said yes, what could I possibly say to her to make her understand why I needed to do what I did?

My heart twisted in agony as I recalled the events of the previous night, the pain of having to kill two innocent women, and how Molly cried after they died. What would I ever tell Molly to explain why I’d killed those people? And then there were the other questions I still hadn’t answered; who hired me to find their daughters, and what had they planned to do with them?

The End

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