Chasing the Sun (9 page)

He entered quietly then followed the sound of voices across a huge open room, past a long, empty dining table, and through a deep archway that opened into a kitchen as large as a clipper’s forecastle.

And there they were, all the faces he remembered. And a lot he didn’t.

And Elena.

A warm, tight feeling surged through him.

Unnoticed, he paused for a moment in the shadows of the arched doorway, struggling to bring his emotions under control. Then he took a deep breath and stepped into the room. “Anything left for me?”

Stunned silence. Then the room erupted into a tumultuous uproar as people rushed toward him—Jessica crying and laughing and hugging him, Brady pounding him on the back, Hank grinning and shoving a pretty woman in his face, Consuelo jabbering, a stern-faced old Scottish fellow speaking with such a strong accent Jack didn’t know if he was being greeted or cursed, kids everywhere, and Elena ... observing quietly from her chair, a joyful yet sad smile on her face.

He was home.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN,” BRADY SAID.

The kids were long in bed, and the women had retired after a rowdy evening catching up on all the news. Now Jack and Brady sat in stuffed leather chairs in Hank’s office sipping aged Scotch whiskey from tiny crystal glasses, while Hank hunched over his desk, tinkering with something that looked like two hoops with a wheel spinning in the middle. Jack still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Elena.

Slumping back against the cushions, Jack propped his sore foot on the corner of Hank’s desk and enjoyed the smooth slide of fine whiskey down his throat.

No jug of Buck’s home brew now. No coarse laughter or plinking guitar music drifting out of the nearby bunkhouse. No whiffling snore from a rank-smelling hound dog dozing at their feet.

Now they were rich. Now they were living in this overbuilt, sprawling, doily-laden home that his brothers had built on the ashes of destruction. Now it was all fine bone china and silver teapots and women’s soft laughter.

And kids. Kids everywhere.

Not that Jack was complaining. He liked living rich. He had a knack for it. He liked to hear women laugh and he liked kids, even when they weren’t laughing. And he especially liked this smooth, smoky whiskey a whole lot better than Buck’s throat-burning, gut-churning brew ... but he’d have to have a few more glasses of it just to be sure.

“So why didn’t you?” Brady prodded.

Pulled from his musings, Jack looked over at him. “Why didn’t I what?”

“Write. I did teach you to write, didn’t I?”

Jack sighed, wishing he could have gotten at least one night’s sleep before butting heads with his oldest brother. “Because I didn’t want to.”

“That’s a piss-poor excuse.”

“It wasn’t meant as an excuse. You asked why I didn’t write. I answered. That’s all.”

Hank chuckled as he tightened a screw on the outside hoop.

Brady glared at him, then aimed his ire at Jack. “You should have written. That’s all I’m saying. We were concerned.”

“About what?”

Brady let out a huff of exasperation. “About Elena. How her operation went. Whether you made it to San Francisco or got scalped on the way. Christ.”

Jack blinked, genuinely surprised at the vehemence behind his brother’s reaction. “I didn’t think it mattered.” Then realizing how cold that sounded, he hastily added, “And anyway, someone would have told you if we’d died.”

“Who? Some sage rat who saw your pretty blond hair on a lodge pole somewhere? Jesus, Jack. Of course it matters. You’re our damn brother.”

Hank backed that up with a stern look and a nod.

Jack was touched. He’d always felt like an afterthought around his forceful older brothers. He’d assumed they’d been glad to see the end of him. Apparently he’d been wrong.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I should have written.”

Brady looked taken aback for a moment. Then he nodded and sat back. “All right, then.”

Confused that the expected lecture had ended so quickly, Jack studied his brother, surprised anew at the changes he saw.

Brady seemed as strong and fit as ever. Tall and lean without being gangly, he still moved in that authoritative way that made other men step back when he entered a room. But now there were deep grooves carved into his leathery cheeks, and new lines fanning out toward his temples, and almost as much gray as black in his hair and beard stubble, even though his brows and drooping mustache remained as dark as ever. Their pa had had the same odd coloring, the same sharp turquoise gaze, and a similar unyielding line to his jaw and chin.

Time had definitely left its mark on his older brother. Hell, it would, with three kids, not counting Ben, and Her Ladyship for a wife—a hot-blooded redhead who could filet meat with that sharp tongue of hers. But Brady seemed content. More than content. Happy. So much so that the signs of aging made him look almost dignified ... more relaxed and mellow.

Which was a load of horse manure if there ever was one. Brady was about as mellow as a stepped-on rattler.

Hank, on the other hand, looked younger, although it was hard to be certain, since at the time Jack had left, ninety percent of Hank’s head and face had been covered with dark brown hair. Marriage must agree with him, too, if it influenced his overgrown brother to take up the civilized habit of shaving. He still looked fitter than fit, but then Hank always had. He was the mule of the family—smart and strong and stubborn as all hell. Jack guessed he’d have to be, to live in the same house with Brady. But despite that, and despite taking on two kids to raise that weren’t his, he seemed happy too.

Jack wondered if he would ever find that same level of contentment in his own life. Without Elena beside him, he doubted it.

“Who’s the Scotsman?” he asked, remembering him from supper.

“Dougal,” Brady said, sourly. “He came from England with Jessica and is apparently too dim-witted to find his way back.”

Jack recalled how the old man waggled his bushy eyebrows at their old housekeeper whenever she entered the room. “What’s going on between him and Consuelo?”

Brady gave a faint shudder. “Don’t ask.”

“Buck and Iantha still around?” They were runaway slaves who had been with them since the Wilkins family had taken over RosaRoja. When Jack had left, they’d been showing their years. He hoped all was well.

“Buck’s rheumatism keeps him close to home. Iantha comes up now and then to check on the kitchen girls, but she won’t stay gone from Buck for long.” Buck had been Brady’s right hand after Pa died and Brady had taken on the running of the ranch. He and Iantha were as much a part of the family as Elena was. “You should go see them.”

“I will.”

They drank without speaking for a while. It was a calm, comfortable silence. The kind that comes when you know your companions so well words aren’t needed and thoughts seemed to flow from one mind to another without barriers or misunderstanding.

Jack had missed it.

He watched Hank search through a pile of parts strewn across the desk. “What are you working on there?” he asked.

“God knows,” Brady muttered.

“A gyroscope.” Having found the part he sought, Hank carefully fitted it to the rotating center wheel.

“What’s it for?”

“It goes on an auger to keep it straight while it’s drilling.”

“Drilling for what?”

“Water, ore, postholes, whatever.”

“A posthole driller.” Grinning, Brady reached for the cut-crystal decanter he’d set on the floor beside his chair. “Finally an idea that makes sense.”

Hank muttered something Jack didn’t catch.

After refilling his glass, Brady passed the decanter to Jack then settled back with a sigh of contentment. “So what do you think of the house?” he asked, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

Jack did likewise. “It’s big,” he allowed after a careful inspection.

“I wanted something sturdy.”

“It’s definitely sturdy.”

“Something that would last.”

As Jack tipped his head back to empty his glass so he could refill it, his eye was drawn to the intricate beams across the ceiling. Planed and polished, with fancy supports where they met the wall. All sparkly clean and new. It was nice, but he missed the cobwebs. Cobwebs gave a room such a sense of history. “There’s a buffalo in my bedroom,” he said.

Brady nodded.

“And a grizzly in your office.”

“Bob,” Brady said with another nod.

“Why?”

Brady took a sip then smoothed the corners of his mustache. “Jessica wouldn’t let me keep them anywhere else. The kids kept climbing on them, and she was afraid they’d tip one of them on top of themselves and get squashed.”

“No, I mean why do you have dead animals in the house at all? And how in the hell did you get a buffalo up those stairs and through the door into my room?”

“We took it over the balcony and through the double French doors. And what’s wrong with having them in the house?”

“They stink,” Hank muttered.

“They’re animals,” Brady defended. “They stink even when they’re alive. And since when do you mind a little stink?”

“I don’t stink. At least your wife doesn’t seem to think so,” he added with an evil grin.

Brady’s blue eyes narrowed. “What’s my wife got to do with it?”

The grin widened.

“You better stay away from my wife.”

“Or what?”

“Now, girls,” Jack chided with a laugh.

It was good to be home.

Five

JACK AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO A RING OF CURIOUS eyes staring at him, topped by colorful halos—blond, red, and something that looked like an Indian headdress with jelly smeared all over it.

“Hi.” The face with blond hair grinned down at him. She had no front teeth.

“Hellfire,” said the redheaded boy next to her.

Sputtering, Jack bolted upright, which sent the redhead and Indian chief into shrieking flight from the room. “What are you doing?”

“You’re Uncle Jack,” the blond said.

He sagged back against the headboard, blinking hard to clear the fuzziness of too much whiskey from his mind.

“I’m Penny.” She thrust a battered doll three inches from his nose. “This is Miss Apple. She got her hands cut off by a monster, but Aunt Jessica sewed them back on.”

“Oh. Well. That’s nice.” Gently he shoved the doll aside. “What are you doing in here?”

Instead of answering, she danced away, the skinny arm not clasped around Miss Apple raised in an arc over her head. “I’ll turn eight next month,” she said, hopping a lopsided circle. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. You’re Hank’s kid, aren’t you? The wanderer.”

“What’s your buffalo’s name? I think you should call him Stinky. Can I ride him?”

Jack shrugged and yawned. “I don’t know. Can you?”

“You’re funny.” She stopped hopping and spinning and came back to lean her elbows on the mattress beside his shoulder. She studied him hard, and by her expression didn’t seem impressed with what she saw. Probably too young yet.

“What did you used to be?”

He blinked at her, thoroughly confused.

“Papa-Hank said you changed. What did you used to be?”

Before he could come up with an answer, Hank appeared in the doorway. “Penny, I thought we talked about this,” he said in a warning tone.

“But I didn’t do anything, Papa-Hank,” the girl protested in a high voice. “He woke up all by himself. Didn’t you?” This last was directed at Jack with a hopeful smile that promised beauty once her teeth grew back.

Jack was prepared to back her up when Hank cut him off. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Penny. You know that.”

“It was Ben and Abigail’s idea. They just wanted to see him.”

Hank looked at her.

The kid drooped like a wilted flower. “Yes, Papa-Hank.”

Hank drooped a bit himself, Jack noticed. Ever the softhearted giant.

“Go on then. Leave the man alone.”

“Yes, Papa-Hank.”

Once the kid left, Hank seemed to find his backbone again. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “Molly wants to see you.”

“About what?” Jack asked around another yawn.

“Your foot. And you better not upset her by fainting.”

Jack grimaced. He’d fainted only one single time in his life ... when he was ten years old and his ax had bounced off a knot and cut into his leg. His brothers never let him forget it. With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, one hand pressed to his pounding temple.

Hank retrieved the saddlebags from the floor and tossed them against Jack’s chest. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Broke.” Jack dug through the pouches, finally coming up with a pile of mostly clean clothes, the brush he used to clean his teeth, and his shaving mug.

“Broke how?”

After giving it some thought, Jack returned the mug to the saddlebag. He needed to wake up more before he went at his throat with a blade. “In a fight.”

“With who?”

“Damn, you’re a nag. With a better fighter. Okay?”

“So you lost.”

Jack scraped his tongue over the back of his teeth, trying to rid himself of the cottony aftertaste of too much whiskey. “The last thing I remember is flying through the air. What do you mean, I’ve changed? Changed how?”