Pieces of Sky (21 page)

As if he read her thoughts, a slow, crooked smile tipped up one corner of his mustache, and she felt it again, that oddly intimate bond that had gripped her last night when she’d looked at him across the crowded courtyard.

From upstairs came the tinkle of a bell. His smile faded.

The bell rang again, louder, longer. A look passed between the brothers.

Since Melanie had already taken a tray to Maude, Jessica surmised the insistent bell ringer was Stanley Ashford. She glanced around, wondering if she should answer it. No one else seemed inclined to.

Brady’s eyes bored into her almost in challenge, as if waiting to see what she did, as if this were some sort of test. But why would he care if she answered Ashford’s summons?

Unless . . .

Yet warmth rushed up her neck. Abruptly she rose and went to the stove. Her hands were so clumsy she almost dropped the cup when she pulled it from the shelf. He couldn’t be jealous, could he? Of Stanley Ashford? Why?

She glanced over. He was watching her, his brows drawn in a scowling ridge above his nose. She looked away, her heart bouncing in her chest. Brady jealous? It was ludicrous, beyond belief, ridiculous in the sublime.

She rather liked the notion.

Acutely aware of his gaze, she tarried at the stove. By the time she’d checked the coals, peeked into every pot, and filled the coffee cup, she’d regained her composure enough to see the absurdity of it. Whatever animosity existed between the two men, she wouldn’t allow herself to be drawn into the middle of it. She would simply show Brady how foolish he was acting by turning the game back on himself. Under his watchful eye, she walked back to the table and set the filled cup beside his plate.

“Sugar?” she asked sweetly.

He looked down at the cup, then up again. “Ah . . . no.”

“I’ll take some.”

“Shut up, Jack,” Hank ordered, his gaze moving from Brady, then back to Jessica.

Ignoring the gawking younger brothers, she lifted the small pitcher. “Milk?”

Brady shook his head.

“More potatoes? Meat? Dessert, perhaps?”

His mustache twitched. “Dessert would be nice.”

“Of course.” She went to the stove, loaded a saucer with warm bread pudding, then came back and set it before him. “Anything else?”

He sat back, his gaze traveling up slowly—too slowly across her bosom—until it met hers. That slow dimpled smile. “Maybe later.”

Jack snickered. Hank elbowed him in the ribs. Jessica fled to the stove.

“There she goes, another one over the fence. You do have a knack, Brady.”

“Shut up, Jack.”

By the time she got herself back in hand, the bell ringing had stopped and the brothers were gobbling food as if nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing had. Perhaps she had imagined it all. Perhaps she had lost all reason.

A few minutes later Stanley Ashford came in. With a terse greeting that only Jessica acknowledged—earning another sour look from Brady—he settled in the chair Elena had vacated.

Jessica set a fresh plate before him and returned to her chair at the table.

If conversation had been slow before, his presence stopped it altogether. With a halfhearted attempt to muffle a belch, Jack tipped back his chair to pull the coffeepot from the stove. He started pouring, then stopped and frowned into the cup. “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” she answered, surprised.

He sniffed the pot. “What’d you put in it?”

“Coffee.”

“I can see bottom.”

At a nod from Brady, Hank rose and took the pot back to the stove. After dumping in another full cup of ground beans, he waited for it to boil, then to Jessica’s amazement, added a handful of broken eggshells.

Brady pushed back his plate. “They finished with Darnell?”

Jack nodded. “On the dining room table, Sunday duds and all. Tobias found an address for his folks. I left it on your desk. The boys will be in soon to say their good-byes.”

Brady rose, went into the larder, and came back out with two earthen jugs. His brothers each grabbed an armful of cups from the hutch shelf then filed out after him, leaving Jessica alone in the kitchen with Stanley Ashford.

She studied him from beneath her lashes. He ate with small precise bites, scooping with his fork rather than impaling his food. Unlike their hosts, he knew the difference between his shirtsleeve and a table napkin and used the latter often.

For some reason that irritated her. He irritated her. Although he was the same handsome, well-mannered man she remembered, when compared to the Wilkins brothers, Stanley Ashford seemed a bit too . . . civilized? Prissy? Short? Being alone with him made her vaguely uneasy.

Hoping to forestall conversation, she rose to clear the table. As she reached for his empty plate, his hand closed over hers. She managed not to flinch.

“I’m leaving with the escort. I think you should come, too.”

“Indeed?” She stared down at his elegant fingers with their buffed nails and pale unblemished skin. His hand felt small and smooth and slightly clammy. Pulling from his grip, she wiped her palm down her apron. “As I explained before, Dr. O’Grady forbids me to travel.”

“It’s an ambulance wagon with reclining benches. You’d be safe enough.”

“Would I? You’re quite sure? Sure enough to risk the lives of my babies?”

“I see I’ve upset you.”

“Not at all.” How had she ever thought this insufferable man attractive? “However, although it was neither warranted nor solicited, I thank you for your concern. May I serve you coffee?”
You twit
.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Mrs. Thornton. I’m simply worried about leaving you stranded out here with no one to care for you.”

“No one? You mean, no one other than Consuelo, the woman who nursed you so ably? Or Elena, who has watched over me like a mother hen? Or Iantha, who has force-fed me five times a day? What other care would I possibly need?”

Ashford smiled thinly. “A couple of Mexican women and an ex-slave?”

That was the last straw. Planting her hands on her hips lest she give in to the urge to strike the pasty-faced ninny, she bent down until her face was level with his. “Those women are my friends,” she said through clenched teeth.

He blinked at her, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of her defense.

“And you will not denigrate them in my presence. Do you understand?”

At a sound, they both looked over to see Brady Wilkins watching from the doorway, his expressive eyes alight with fiendish delight. “Problems?”

Jessica straightened and glared down her nose at the preening popinjay she had once admired. “Not now. He was just leaving.” Then before she forgot good manners altogether, she went to the washbasin, snatched a dishrag from a peg, and attacked the stack of dirty dishes.

How dare he? Consuelo and Elena had run themselves ragged on his behalf.

She heard the scrape of Ashford’s chair. But only one set of footsteps faded down the hall.

She tensed, knowing Brady was still there. She could feel him somewhere behind her, his presence as palpable as a touch. A shiver of anticipation shot through her, heightening her senses to the point that she almost gasped when the familiar weight of his strong hands settled on her shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his breath fanning the top of her head.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t even look around. But she sensed him looming behind her, so close, she could feel the heat of his body down the length of her back. “Yes, I do,” she said in a fluttery voice. “They’re my friends.”

His arm reached around her to gently pull the dishrag from her clenched fingers. He tossed it onto the stack of dishes. “I mean you don’t have to wash the dishes.”

“Oh.” Feeling foolish, she stared down at her empty hands, waiting for him to move away so she could breathe again. Instead she felt his fingers brush across her cheek and down the side of her neck to where her collar brushed her nape. It made her heart tremble in her chest.

“You please me, Jessica,” he whispered against her ear. Then his hands fell away, and cool air whispered down her spine.

Unable to stop herself, she looked around, but he was already gone.

Eleven

BRADY GOT HIS TROOPERS, BUT FIRST THE ESCORT HAD TO DELIVER the Kinderlys to an Army post on the north bank of the Rio Hondo. They would leave the next morning and return within two days. Meanwhile, Brady would send for help from the outlying ranches as well as Val Rosa, so that when the soldiers returned, there would be enough men to do a thorough sweep of the whole area.

Despite the dead man resting in the dining room, a sense of anticipation permeated the house and excitement ran high. The night before, in preparation for the influx of men answering Brady’s call, Sandoval, the bunkhouse cook, buried the dressed carcass of a steer in a coal-lined pit, covered it with an oiled canvas to protect it against the rain, and left it to roast undisturbed for the next two days.

During the night the rain stopped, and by morning the creeks had receded, assuring the Kinderlys of a sunny, if muddy, trip. Jessica stood at the porch rail, watching the endless preparations and wondering if the Dougherty wagon would sink to its hubs under the weight of the passengers and all their luggage.

She had mixed feelings about their going. Together they had suffered a terrible ordeal and their survival had forged a bond among them that would never be forgotten. The moment the coach crashed down that rocky slope, everything in Jessica’s life had changed.
She
had changed. These people were the last link in the chain that bound her to what she had been, and the life she had known before. In their eyes, she was still Mrs. Jessica Thornton, grieving widow, author of pamphlets of deportment, and maker of overblown hats—a woman worthy of their respect. But now? Now she didn’t know where she fit anymore. She was a kite without a string.

It promised to be an awkward leave-taking. Throughout the bustle and confusion of packing and making sure that there was ample water, that the benches were properly cushioned, that everything humanly possible had been done to ensure Maude’s comfort, neither Maude nor Ashford had afforded Jessica a single glance. An insubstantial loss as far as Jessica was concerned, but she would dearly miss Melanie.

The poor girl was in near hysterics. Apparently her attachment to Hank went deeper than mere infatuation. Hank must have shared those feelings, for although he had made himself scarce throughout the morning, Jessica had seen him in the doorway of the barn, watching the preparations and glowering behind his beard. She noticed he was there now, staring at Melanie with that same intensity Jessica had seen in his older brother’s eyes, although to her mind it was much more affecting when those eyes were sky blue rather than dark brown.

“Oh, Jessica, what if I never see him again? I’ll die. Surely I will.”

“I doubt it.” Jessica tucked a loose strand of blond hair beneath the brim of Melanie’s bonnet. “But why tell me?” Taking the girl by the shoulders, she turned her toward the barn and gave her a gentle push. “Tell him.”

When Melanie saw Hank watching from the doorway, she let out a squeak and charged across the muddy yard. Luckily Maude was too busy supervising her escort to notice.

An hour later, the wagon stood ready to depart. Jessica said good-bye to Maude and gave hugs to a surprisingly recovered Melanie.

“Hopefully I’ll see you again soon,” the girl whispered with a sly wink before skipping down the porch steps.

Stanley Ashford hesitated beside her. “You can still change your mind, you know. There’s ample room.”

“There’s more room here,” a deep voice cut in.

Jessica pursed her lips, wondering why Brady felt the need to insinuate himself whenever she and Ashford were together. “Good-bye, Mr. Ashford. I wish you a safe journey.”

A few minutes later, the wagon rolled forward, leaving deep ruts in the soft ground. Hank watched until it cleared the arched gate then went back into the barn.

“I do believe our Hank’s smitten,” Brady observed, sounding somewhat surprised.

“As is Melanie.”

That didn’t seem to surprise him at all. “Well, he is a looker. Couldn’t seem to hold the girls off until he grew all that hair. It’s a family curse, I guess.”

“Growing hair?” she asked innocently.

He glanced over, gave her the full benefit of that dazzling, dimpled grin, and she realized what a naïve ninny she had been. He knew exactly the effect of that smile and employed it without conscience to further his own aims. The man was a shameless bounder and an utter cad.

Whatever boost in spirits the departure of the Kinderlys and Ashford brought, it quickly faded when word came that the other wounded ranch hand, Sanchez, had died from his chest wound. Now there were two men awaiting burial in the morning. A pall fell over the house. Jessica had never seen Brady look so grim, and even Laughing Jack lost his cheerful smile. After a somber lunch, the brothers retired to Brady’s office, where they spent the hours poring over maps and making plans.