Pieces of Sky (10 page)

Relieved to be out of his little brother’s sights for a while, Brady settled back again.

Somewhere on the ridge a coyote yipped, was answered by another, then another. Brady hoped Her Ladyship had enough firewood for tonight and wished he’d shown her how to use his repeater. He didn’t want another death on his conscience. He had one too many as it was.

He thought about all the lives that depended on him. Dozens of good people—a family. Ru, who’d been orphaned at the age of ten and had been with them ever since. Abe, who fancied himself a gunfighter until he saw up close the damage a bullet could do. Red, one of the many displaced children from the war. And Buck. Especially Buck.

His gaze drifted toward the man who had been his mainstay ever since his father died. He noted the frailness of bony shoulder blades where muscle used to be, the kinky whiteness of hair that had once been coal black, and he wondered what he would do when Buck was gone, too. The thought awakened those same feelings of panic he’d felt a decade ago when he’d first taken up the reins of RosaRoja and realized how heavy that burden would be.

Buck had been there through it all, ever since he and Iantha had fled the South. Rather than be sold apart, they had run west until they hooked up with Jacob in late ’48 and Buck started scouting for the Missouri Volunteers during the war with Mexico. He was there when Jacob found RosaRoja and paid the back taxes to get it—there when Jacob almost lost it over another man’s wife—and there when Jacob died. Through all those hard years, Buck had never faltered in his loyalty to Jacob.

“A man don’ turn agin’ his own, nawsuh,” he would say, trying to get Brady to make his peace with his father before it was too late. “If he do, he only hurt hisself.”

But Brady had been too overwhelmed by the responsibility of RosaRoja and his brothers to pay heed. He had been too angry, too afraid of what he might find if he dug too deep. Then Sam died. And when he laid his youngest brother’s body to rest, Brady buried with him any hope of reconciling with his father. There were some things a man could never forgive.

It had been ten years since the night of the fire when Don Ramon and Maria died and Jacob suffered a fit that had left him mute and paralyzed. Ten years since Sancho went to prison. Ten years of wondering what really happened. Brady never spoke of that night, never told his brothers what he suspected their father had done—why burden them with that poisonous knowledge? And when he buried Jacob beside Sam and his mother and baby sister, he thought he was shutting that door forever.

But now it was opening again.

Who would he bury next?

A voice broke through his dark thoughts and he looked over to see Ru grinning at him over the side rail. “Tell me about the women. I ain’t had my turnip tweaked in a month.”

Brady sighed. “Just an old lady and her daughter, and a widow-lady.”

“How old’s the daughter?”

“You wouldn’t like her. She reads.”

“What about the widow-lady?”

Jack smirked at him from the driver’s box. “Yeah, Brady. Tell us about the widow-lady.”

“I suspect she reads, too.” Where else would she learn to use so many words to say so little?

Pulling his penknife from his pocket, Brady worked at a broken cactus spine in his thumb.

“What else?” Abe asked, moving up alongside Ru.

Brady felt cornered. “She’s got a lot of rules.” None of which made much sense. “And I think she might have weak lungs.”

“You mean little tits?”

The blade jerked, nicking his cuticle. Carefully he folded the knife and slipped it back into his pocket, then wiped the blood on his pants. “No, I mean weak lungs. Like asthma.”

“So her tits are all right?” Abe persisted.

Brady swung toward him. “Aren’t you supposed to be riding drag?”

“Yessir.”

Brady looked at him.

Abe dropped back.

Ru took his place. “Maybe she’s snaggle-toothed.”

“And aren’t you supposed to ride point?”

“Rodriquez is.”

“Hope she’s not wall-eyed,” Jack mused. “A wall-eyed woman’s hard to lie to.”

“You would know,” Brady muttered, wondering why he’d ever allowed this conversation to start in the first place.

“What color’s her hair?” Ru asked.

Oiled red oak, threaded with gold. “Red, I think.”

“That’s trouble.” Ru straightened and shook his head. “Next to a whistler, a redheaded woman is the worse kind.”

“I heard women with gold teeth were,” Jack argued.

“You’re thinking of tattoos. They’re the worse worst.”

Peckerheads.
Brady closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

Five

IT WAS ALMOST DAWN WHEN THEY ROLLED DOWN THE RUTTED track into the canyon. Brady noticed the stench of rotten meat first, then the absence of firelight. As they neared the half-eaten carcasses, low-slung shadows scattered through the brush and wide-winged birds took to the air. The teams sidestepped and snorted, forcing Jack to jump down and lead them past the overturned coach.

The Kinderly girl ran to meet them, waving a sage branch like a sword until she spotted Brady in the back of the wagon. Then she burst into tears and ran back around the coach where they could hear her yelling to her mother.

No sign of Her Ladyship.

Brady lit a lantern. Ignoring the burning pain in his feet, he slid from the rear of the wagon and limped toward the two figures stretched on the ground beside the ashes of a cold campfire. As he drew closer, he could see it was three figures, not two, and none was moving. Cursing under his breath, he knelt. Reaching past Oran, he checked the Englishwoman’s neck for a pulse. Weak but steady. Her skin felt hot. Oran’s was cold.

The railroader didn’t rouse when Brady checked his wound. Infected, but no red streaks. After smearing Consuelo’s salve on a fresh handkerchief, he rebandaged then had Jack and Ru carry the unconscious man to the wagon. Then he turned to Her Ladyship.

She didn’t move or open her eyes, even when he dribbled water on her cracked lips or picked her up and carried her to the wagon. The extra weight on his raw feet hurt like a sonofabitch, but he preferred doing it himself rather than allow anyone else to handle her. He wasn’t sure why.

After the passengers were settled in the back of the wagon, Jack and Buck loaded luggage while Ru and Abe laid Oran beside Bodine, covering him with rocks to keep scavengers at bay until Overland took both bodies to Val Rosa for proper burials. Just after dawn, with the rising sun backlighting the ridges like a distant fire, they turned toward home.

It was a quiet trip. The old lady and her daughter huddled in one corner while Ashford tossed and muttered in the other. Her Ladyship slept straight through. With barely enough room to stretch out his legs and prop up his feet, Brady rode sandwiched between valises and Her Ladyship, who was radiating so much heat it was like lying next to a slow fire. In some ways, it reminded him of when he was a kid and a howling Missouri snowstorm would drive his little brothers into his bed—Jack, sharp knees and icy feet on one side, Hank, hot as banked coals on the other.

But in other ways, it made him damned uncomfortable.

He didn’t like feeling responsible for her, or worrying about her, or wondering who she was running from and why. He didn’t want all the complications she brought.

But he did like the way she made him laugh.

He looked down at her, amazed that such a small head could grow so much hair. It was everywhere, an undisciplined tangle of curls so silky-fine they caught on anything in reach—the straw, the blanket, the stubble of his beard. He wondered what it would feel like running through his fingers.

He’d never known a woman like her. She was a puzzle he couldn’t fit in his mind—too many contradictions, too many unanswered questions. And sometimes, when she was afraid or in pain and trying hard not to show it, when she looked at him with those whiskey brown eyes, it was Sam all over again. And for one shocking and desperate moment Brady had to fight the urge to grab hold of her and promise this time he would find a way to fix it and make everything right again.

But she wasn’t Sam. And some things could never be fixed.

The afternoon sun had leached the color from the sky by the time they crossed under the wrought iron arch a quarter mile from the house. Bullshot ran to meet them, making the team hop as he darted between their legs. Two horses stood at the hitching rail in the yard—Doc’s calf-kneed gelding and a big buckskin Brady didn’t know. As they stopped before the house, Hank came onto the porch followed by Consuelo and several ranch hands.

“Any trouble?” Brady called.

“Not a sign.” Hank’s gaze swept the passengers then backtracked when he saw the Kinderly girl gawking at him. He looked away, a flush rising above his beard.

Brady directed two hands to take the Kinderly women to one of the two upstairs bedrooms. “Where’s Doc?” he asked as Hank tromped down the steps.

“Coming. Sheriff Rikker’s here, too. Wants to talk to you.”

“Later.” Relieved to see Doc’s round form emerge from the house, Brady rose on his knees and gently nudged Her Ladyship. “We’re here.”

She didn’t respond.

Doc lifted the railroader’s bandage. “Sweet Mary.” After sending Consuelo to boil needles and a tube of horsehair ligatures, he directed Abe and Ru to carry the unconscious man to the other upstairs bedroom. Then he peered through the side rails at Her Ladyship. “What do you have there, lad?”

Hank crowded in, his head and half his chest visible above Doc’s sparse white hair.

“A knot on her head and hardly any food or water for two days.” As he spoke, Brady motioned for Hank to come to the back of the wagon. “Carry her inside. And be careful.” The warning wasn’t necessary. Although Hank was the biggest in the family—hell, the biggest for a hundred miles—he was also the gentlest, especially with anything helpless. But cross him, or lie to him, or get his temper up, and he became unstoppable. Both Brady and Jack had the scars to prove it.

Hank carefully lifted her from the back of the wagon. She hung like a rag doll in his arms, her long chestnut hair fanning across Hank’s muscular thighs as he carried her toward the house.

“Put her in my room,” Brady called after him.

“Won’t that be cozy,” Jack muttered, jumping down from the driver’s box.

Brady ignored him and tossed valises out of the back of the wagon to men waiting to carry them inside.

Doc studied the wrappings on Brady’s feet. “What about you, boyo?”

“I’ll keep. Tend the woman. And Doc.” Brady stopped tossing and motioned the old man closer so Jack wouldn’t hear. “You probably should know she’s breeding.”

Doc reared back. “Breeding? Faith, are you saying the lass is pregnant?”

Brady winced. It was obvious from the way Jack stared at them that he’d heard Doc’s announcement. Hell, anyone within fifty yards heard it.

“Jasus!” Doc hurried up the steps. “Sure, and leave it to a woman to complicate things.”

Brady tossed out the last of the luggage, then let his legs dangle off the end of the wagon while he mustered the courage to put his weight on his bandaged feet. The numbing effect of Consuelo’s salve had long worn off.

Jack leaned against the rear wheel and studied him. “Two days and already breeding. No wonder you want her in your room.”

“Don’t start.” Teeth clenched, Brady eased to the ground. As soon as his feet touched dirt, pain exploded up his legs.

“I’m surprised, though,” Jack went on as Brady struggled to catch his breath. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Big Brother. Or in her either.”

Fueled by pain, Brady’s anger ignited. Without thinking, he swung out, catching Jack on the side of the head with a backhand that knocked his hat askew and sent him staggering for balance. “Watch your mouth,” he snarled. “This isn’t one of your cantina whores and I won’t let you drag her through the dirt to get at me. Understand?”

Jack gaped, a hand cupped to his ear. Then fury twisted his face. “You moralistic bastard! I’m not the one treating women like whores, stashing them all over the house!”

Brady frowned, confused.

Jack reared back. “You forgot about Elena, didn’t you? Or did you plan to jump from one to the other, you sonofabitch!” His fists came up, and he would have started swinging if Elena hadn’t come out of the house.

“No!”

Jack froze, arm cocked. He glared at the woman on the porch.

“
Por favor
, Jackson. Do not do this. He is your brother.”

Brady watched the battle his brother waged. He recognized it, understood it, but couldn’t say the words that would ease Jack’s mind.

Jack let his arm drop. “Go to hell. Both of you.” His back stiff with anger, he whirled and stalked toward the barn.

Brady hobbled onto the porch, every step burning as if he walked on hot nails. Elena hovered beside him, wanting to help but mostly getting in the way. By the time he’d settled into the oversized rocker his mother had carted all the way from Missouri, his stomach was cramping from pain. Elena helped him prop his feet up on the railing and almost immediately the throbbing eased.

“You need to tell him, Elena,” he said after he caught his breath.

“Soon.” She gave him a sad, wistful smile. “But I am not yet ready to leave,
comprendes
?”

“You don’t have to leave. This is as much your home as ours.”

She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “But how could I stay if he did not want me?” When he started to argue, she shook her head. “No,
querido
. We have said it all many times before. I will speak soon. But now, I must help Consuelo.”

As Brady watched her limp into the house, all the regrets and guilt and love he felt for this beautiful, damaged woman settled like a stone in his chest. One more thing he couldn’t fix. With a weary sigh, he tipped back his head and closed his eyes and tried not to think of how empty the place would be if Jack emigrated and Elena left and Hank struck out on his own. Why was it, the harder he fought to hold his family together, the faster it threatened to split apart?