Pieces of Sky (12 page)

And yet here she was in his room, in his bed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You came back,” she said, feeling so faint she could scarce keep open her eyes.

“I said I would.”

She smiled sleepily. A man who actually kept his word. She should write to the archbishop. “It took you long enough.”

“I had problems.”

She tried to smirk. It made her lips sting. When she touched them with her tongue, she felt cracked skin and greasy ointment. “I thought I was dying.” Just the memory of it made her heart pound. Blinking hard, she watched lacy cobwebs flutter along the overhead beams and tried not to think about that long hideous night when the smell of death was so thick it coated her throat, and she lay in shivering terror, listening to the crunch and growl of feasting scavengers and wondering when they would brave the dying fire and come for her. “Mr. Phelps died.”

“I know.”

“The others?”

“Recovering.”

That jolt of relief again. They were alive. She was alive. Victoria was alive. They’d survived because of this man. Battling tears again, she turned her head toward him. “Thank you.”

He nodded, his face betraying nothing. But those eyes . . .

Suddenly it was too much. Her mind couldn’t take it all in. Weariness pulled her down toward the smothering darkness where snarling shadows and snapping jaws waited.
No . . . I don’t want to go.
Terrified, she reached out, straining for the light.

A hand closed over hers. “You’re all right. You’re okay.” The palm was broad and warm and rough with calluses. Solid. Safe. Her talisman against the dark.

Desperate for the contact, she clutched it with both hands, tucking it close to her heart.

Safely anchored, she surrendered to the dark.

 

 

FOR A LONG TIME BRADY DIDN’T MOVE, SO RATTLED BY WHAT she’d done and where his hand was, he wasn’t sure what to do. He tried not to notice the warmth, the softness against his fingers. Instead he studied her face, marveling again at the delicate features that hid such surprising strength.

She was a conundrum, this woman who plagued his thoughts. Like a swan in the desert, or a rose in a burned-out draw, she was unexpected and unexplainable and so disconcertingly beautiful it made him forget how to think. With his free hand, he gently loosened a long strand of red-gold hair stuck to her cheek. At least she had been beautiful before the sun left crusty blisters across her nose and lips, and Consuelo’s salve left greasy clumps matted in her hair.

“She is better?”

He turned to see Elena in the doorway. “Somewhat.” Pulling his hand from Her Ladyship’s grip, he wiped his palm down his thigh and sat back. “The fever broke just before dawn. She woke up long enough to take some water.”

“
Gracias a Dios
.” Elena limped to the bed, her rosary twined through her fingers. “She looks better. I prayed she would recover.” She slanted a look at him. “You were here all night?”

“A few hours.” He bent to adjust the wrappings around his foot, avoiding Elena’s sharp gaze. “Consuelo looked ready to drop, so I sent her to bed.” He straightened. “Besides, with these feet, I can’t do anything but sit around.”

“Have you told her about
los gemelos
?”

Brady shook his head. “Doc wants to wait. Just to be sure.”

“Two babies.” A wistful look crossed Elena’s face. “
Una mujer afortunada
.”

She didn’t
look
lucky, Brady thought, studying the exhausted woman in his bed. But she was alive, and her babies were alive, and luck probably played as big a part in that as his worrying or Elena’s praying had.

“Shall I bring Consuelo?” she asked.

Brady shook his head. “Let her sleep. But there is something you could do.” He gave her his biggest grin, even though he knew it didn’t work on Elena like it seemed to on the Englishwoman. “You could get me something to eat.”

Elena rolled her eyes. But she went for food, so maybe the Wilkins smile worked on her after all.

He stretched the kinks in his back, rubbed a hand over his gritty eyes, then leaned over and blew out the lamp. The rosy glow of dawn filled the window. He sat listening to the ranch awaken—cattle bawling as they headed to the river, the nicker of horses anxious to be fed, the chatter of birdsong and chickens, the low voices of his men as they moved to the cookhouse and the day’s first bitter cup of coffee. Familiar, reassuring sounds that were so much a part of his life he couldn’t imagine a day without them. This was what he knew, what he understood and was comfortable with.

His gaze swung back to the woman in his bed.

This woman didn’t fit that. She didn’t belong here any more than he belonged at an English tea party, and it was a waste of time and energy to think different.

He had three months to convince himself of that.

 

 

WHEN JESSICA OPENED HER EYES, THE ROOM WAS BRIGHT with sunlight and she was perspiring beneath a thin quilt.

He was still sitting there, hunched over his bent leg, trying to peek under the bandages on his foot. He must have felt her gaze because he abruptly looked up. Seeing she was awake, he lowered his foot and grinned. “About time. Thirsty?”

She blinked, stunned all over again by the remarkable change in his face when he smiled. He should do that more often. Or perhaps not. She was dizzy enough as it was. “Yes, please.”

The earlier ritual repeated itself. Once she’d taken her fill and he’d eased her gently back onto the pillows, the cobwebs in her mind had thinned. “What happened to your feet?” she asked, her voice sounding scratchy and hoarse in her own ear.

“Rubbed to a nub going for help. You hungry?”

She shook her head. Her stomach was still trying to settle the water. “Where am I?”
And why are you in my room and how did I get into my nightclothes?

“The ranch. Consuelo might have some soup. I could ask.”

“Consuelo?”

“She tends house and cooks for me and my brothers. She’ll probably tend you from now on.”

“Who’s tending me now?”
And why do I need tending?

“Lots of people.” He bent to scratch under his bandage.

“
Lots
of people? What people?” Instinctively her hand went to her abdomen. “What’s wrong with me?”

She must have shouted it because his head flew up, his aqua eyes wide and alarmed. “Calm down. You’re all right. You’ve been sick for a while, that’s all.”

“Sick with what? For how long?”

“Fever. Three days.” When she started to speak again, he held up a hand to stop her. “Doc’s coming this afternoon. Save it for him.” He started to rise. “I’ll see if Consuelo—”

“Wait.” There were still too many questions, too many fears. She wasn’t ready to face them alone—even though she was growing desperate for a chamber pot and some privacy.

He sank back down, but his expression was that of a man poised to bolt.

“Are the other passengers here as well?”

“Yes.” He didn’t seem pleased by that.

“Mr. Ashford is recovering?”

“For now.”

“Maude Kinderly?”

This time she had no doubt of his irritation. “Still alive, but I’m thinking of shooting her if her daughter doesn’t get around to it.”

At her shocked reaction, he sighed. “That’s a joke. Anything else?” She cast about for a way to delay his departure, unsure why keeping him near was so important. Perhaps because he was a familiar face. Or because his solid presence was a barrier against the terrors that threatened. Or because she had lost good sense altogether. “Are your brothers here, too?” If so, it must be a large house to accommodate so many people. Which made her wonder where Mr. Wilkins slept if she now resided in his room, and why she was in his room and not a clinic if she was so ill she needed tending. Feeling a headache build, she pressed fingertips to her temple. Dare she ask if they had indoor plumbing?

“They won’t bother you if you don’t show fear. Or dangle raw meat at them.”

Lowering her hand, she stared at him.

“That’s another joke. Don’t they have jokes in England?” He rose, reminding her again of his great height. “If that’s all . . .” He started toward the door.

Realizing he was about to escape, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped, then swung back. “For what?”

“Your feet. For imposing on you. For Mr. Phelps. I know he was your friend.”

“Yeah. Well.” He shifted, a flush darkening his sun-browned cheeks. “I don’t know how it is in England, but in hard country like this, we look out for each other.”

“I see. Of course. Well then, thank you.”

“Thinking to pay me again, are you? I told you I don’t take money from women.”

Was he teasing her? No one ever teased the redoubtable, most proper Spinster Thornton. She rather liked it. “I would, but I don’t know where my reticule is,” she said, fighting a smile.

Unbelievably his grin stretched wider, showing at least two dozen of the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. “Too bad. This time I think I earned it.” He started again toward the door.

“You never answered my question,” she called once she’d regained her senses. “Who has been tending me?”

He stopped in the doorway.

She noticed his sturdy frame nearly filled the opening, and he had to duck to clear the top. Such prodigious size almost made her feel petite.

He glanced back over one broad shoulder. “Who do you think?” Then he slipped away, leaving a soft echo of low laughter drifting from the hall.

That cad
.

She scowled at the empty doorway, her vivid imagination filling in all the gaps he had purposely left. She pictured herself lying helpless and insensate, babbling in a fevered delirium while he hovered over her, listening and staring and doing—well, God knows what. Just the thought of it made her stomach cramp.

Or perhaps it was the water. Or hunger pains. Or the need to relieve herself.

By the time she had gotten herself in hand, he was back with a tray of food, which he set on the bureau, and a portly, middle-aged Mexican woman, who he introduced as Consuelo.

The woman smiled, her round face dominated by dark eyes as kind and welcoming as any Jessica had seen in a long time. With a promise to bring the others by later—what others?—Brady Wilkins shuffled out again, trailing loose wrappings from his injured right foot.

Consuelo spoke only broken English, and with such a strong accent, Jessica understood little of her continual chatter. However, the woman’s innate kindness communicated itself well enough that Jessica soon began to relax. After an awkward interlude with the chamber pot, followed by a quick wash and another layer of ointment on her face, luncheon was served.

It consisted of a bowl of chicken broth that Consuelo spooned into her—which added to Jessica’s sense of helplessness—accompanied by flat round corn cakes dripping cinnamon-spiced honey. Despite her irritation at her own weakness, Jessica was grateful for the help. She felt as wobbly as a new kitten and doubted she could have managed the meal on her own without making a mess of it. She was trembling with exhaustion by the time Consuelo set the tray aside and began putting the room to rights, chatting away the entire time.

Jessica tried to listen but weariness claimed her, and after a few minutes, she slowly sank back into the velvety blackness.

 

 

SHE AWOKE TO THE TERRIFYING SENSATION OF HANDS PUSHING against her midsection, trying to hurt her baby. Lurching upright, she flailed at her assailant, a scream tearing through her throat.

Hands gripped her wrists, pinned them against the pillows. “Ja-sus, woman,
ara be whist!
Faith, but it’s loopers, ye are!”

Jessica froze. Watery, bloodshot eyes stared down from a round, rosy face topped by a halo of white, bushy hair. His nose and breath named him a drinker, which sent renewed strength through her trembling limbs. With a snarl, she yanked her wrists free just as the door crashed open.

Brady Wilkins loomed in the doorway, shirttail loose, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed as if he’d been roused from a nap. He looked around as if he expected to find someone lurking in the corner, then his gaze swung back to Jessica and her assailant. His expression of alarm became one of confusion. “I heard screams. What’s going on, Doc?”

“Doc?” Jessica frowned at her attacker. “Are you a physician?”

The old man’s eyebrows lifted like startled white caterpillars. “Saints preserve us! You’re English!”

“You’re Irish!” Jessica shot back with equal disdain.

“And it’s proud of it I am!” Drawing himself up to his full five feet, the little Celt puffed out his chest. “Bartholomew Patrick O’Grady, blessed son of the land of Erin and Medical Officer of the First Regiment of the Irish Brigade, at your service.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. An Irish physician.
Saints preserve us all.

“I can see ye’re near fainting for joy, colleen.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “Sure, and don’t be awed by the loftiness of my own self. For all that you’re English and a woman besides, I’ll hold to my oath as a healer.”

Brady Wilkins still hovered in the doorway. “Is everything all right, Doc?”

“It will be if she minds her temper and stays abed for the next three months.”

Jessica couldn’t believe they were discussing her private female issues as if she weren’t even in the room, as if—suddenly his words blasted through her head.

“Three months!” She must have shrieked it, judging by their expressions. “You expect me to just lie here for three months!” The idea was so absurd, so beyond reason, Jessica couldn’t get her mind around it. “Why? What is wrong with me? Is it because of the baby?”

The scurvy bone-cutter threw up his hands. “It is, but don’t be listening to me, Miss Laudy Daw. Faith, I’m only the physician, don’t you know.”