Pieces of Sky (24 page)

Elena took a tiny sip, then cleared her throat and set her cup carefully on the tabletop. “You miss your home?”

Jessica smiled. “I do. Very much.”

“Tell me what you miss,” Elena urged. “I know nothing of England.”

Jessica thought for a moment. “The pace,” she finally said. “The traditions, the sense of history. The safety.”

Elena blinked at her in surprise. “You do not feel safe at the rancho?”

Jessica laughed. “Of course . . . except for the poisonous snakes and deadly insects, mountain lions, giant bears, wild pigs, wolves, plants with sharp spines, a sun that will burn you by day, and a wind that will freeze you at night. How can I not feel safe?”

Elena rocked back in laughter. “You forgot Mexican banditos and Indians on the warpath.”

“And landslides and flash floods and stage crashes,” Jessica added, joining in her laughter.

“And scorpions.” Elena shivered. “I hate scorpions.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. A moment later, Brady came through the doorway. He stopped abruptly when he saw them. “Good God.”

Jessica laughed at his look of surprise.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jessica and Elena exchanged haughty looks. “Why, my dear man,” Elena said, trying to mimic Jessica’s accent and failing miserably. “We are having a proper tea party.”

“Tea party.”

“Quite so.” Jessica struggled to keep from breaking into giggles. Brady was at a loss for words. Amazing. “Would you care to join us? I can give you a hat, if you like.”

His gaze flew to her hat, then quickly away. “Ah . . . no.” He backed toward the door. “Well. You ladies enjoy yourselves.”

“Oh we are,” Jessica sang gaily.

“Indeed, we are,” Elena mimicked as she tossed the trailing end of her fluffy bow over her shoulder. “Except for the tea, it is positively marvelous.”

Jessica looked at her in surprise.

THAT NEXT WEEK SUMMER ROUNDUP BEGAN.

It was one of the busiest times of the year for RosaRoja, and there weren’t enough hours in the day to do all that needed to be done. Every man, woman, and child above the age of ten contributed. After gathering all the cattle in huge milling throngs, the new calves were branded, young male animals castrated, culls set aside to be sold, and late springers—cows that were late giving birth—separated so they could be monitored until their calves were old enough to send into the mountains. It was difficult, dirty work, and when Brady and his brothers staggered in for their evening meal, they hardly spoke other than to report on each day’s progress. As soon as they finished eating, they left again.

Even so, and despite the grueling pace, long hours, and exhausting work, there was a feeling of excitement in the air, because these men loved what they did. It was a life totally different from any Jessica had known. At home the landed gentry lived off the labors of their tenants but rarely worked alongside them, and distinctions of class were so well marked, a landowner might never know the names of the people who toiled on his behalf. Here owners and ranch hands worked side by side with a shared purpose and deep commitment. And no one worked harder on this ranch than Brady Wilkins. If RosaRoja was a living entity, Brady was its beating heart.

Pamphlets on deportment and fancy hats seemed rather banal in comparison.

As Jessica watched the cycles of RosaRoja unfold around her, the precariousness of her own situation plagued her. She couldn’t stay here forever, and the possibility of finding George dwindled with each passing day. She would have to find a way to sustain herself and support her babies without relying on the charity of others. There seemed scant opportunity here, but if Elena went to California to see the doctor about her hip, perhaps Jessica could go with her. She had heard there was a flourishing and fashionable society in San Francisco, one that might become a market for her hats. She had supported herself on her millinery talents before. Perhaps she could do so again.

It was more of a hope than a plan, but simply having one did wonders for her spirits. She would see what Elena decided about the doctor in California, then make her own decisions.

She stayed as busy as her pregnancy and the weather allowed. Even though the days grew longer and hotter, as soon as the sun slipped behind the mountains, the temperature cooled. After the dinner meal and the men returned to their chores, she often took her sewing basket to the porch to enjoy the evening breeze. In addition to the endless mending on the brothers’ clothing, she had begun samplers for the ladies who had been so generous to her babies.

Evening was her favorite time of day—bands of color exploding across the western sky, cattle lowing in the distance, crickets chirping their evening song to the thump and creak of the rocker. It was a kaleidoscope of color, spinning to the music of RosaRoja and perfumed by the heady scent of summer roses.

The sunsets were magnificent—blood-streaked reds, fiery oranges, tattered purple clouds shot with ribbons of gold. Each evening the colors seemed brighter and lasted longer, peaking toward the middle of the month when an early full moon rose. For a moment, it perched on the fingertips of the mountains like a giant glowing orange ball, then the riotous color faded into a milky glow, and one by one, awakening stars dusted the indigo sky.

It was too beautiful to be believed.

“Quite a show, isn’t it?”

Jessica looked over to see Brady in the doorway of his office. He leaned against the jamb, arms folded over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, watching her. She had missed him at supper, had hardly spoken to him in days, and hadn’t been alone with him at all since that night in her room when he’d kissed her. Seeing him now, posed as he was with that lazy self-assurance evident in every line of his long form, she felt bewitched all over again.

“I heard you creaking around out here,” he said with his lopsided smile.

“It was your rocker creaking, not I.”

Pushing away from the jamb, he walked toward her.

She loved the way he walked. Graceful and fluid but utterly masculine, with the loose-hipped rolling gait of a horseman—weight coming down authoritatively on his heels, the swinging motion of his long legs balanced by the sway of broad shoulders. A swagger, almost.

“Got something for you.” Stopping behind the rocker, he bent down until his lips almost brushed her ear. “Something you’ve been wanting for a long time.”

She stared down at her clasped hands, reminding herself to breathe, to ignore the way his breath rustled in her ear.

With a chuckle, he straightened. “I’ve missed your blushes, woman.” He walked to the other end of the porch and leaned over the railing. Hooking two fingers in his mouth, he gave a high shrill whistle toward the bunkhouse. A minute later, one of the workers ran up. Brady spoke to him, then the man left and Brady walked back toward her. This time she didn’t watch him, although she was acutely aware when he stopped at the railing beside her chair.

“It’s because of the dust,” he said, bracing his hands on the railing as he stared out at the twilight sky. “That’s what gives the sunset its color.”

She looked up, realized he was grinning over his shoulder at her instead of watching the sunset, and quickly looked away. “Yes. Amazing. I, ah, have never seen anything quite like it.”

“I’m gratified to hear it.”

She folded the shirt she had been hemming and dropped it back into the basket at her feet. “Because of dust, you say?”

He straightened. Propping his shoulder against the porch post, he slid his long fingers into the front pockets of his denim trousers.

Jessica tried not to watch, but her eyes wouldn’t behave.
Licentious ninny.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice her noticing. “The dirtier the air, the prettier the colors,” he explained, his eyes drifting over her. “During a brush fire the sky can turn deep red or fiery orange or even a golden brown. All the colors in your hair.”

The man could say the most astounding things.

The worker came around the side of the house. He carried a smaller version of Brady’s rocker, with a gingham cushion and gently curved arms. She watched in openmouthed delight as he carried it up the steps, then left. “Is that for me?”

“If it still fits,” Brady said doubtfully, positioning the new chair beside his.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She tried to sound severe but couldn’t stop smiling as she pushed herself out of Brady’s rocker.

“When Buck started on it, you were a skinny little thing, but now . . . you’re not.”

She waved him out of the way so she could sit. “I was never a little thing.”

“Compared to me you were. How’s it feel?”

“Lovely.” She ran her palms over the satiny finish of the arms, tested the smoothness of the rocking motion, leaned into the gentle curve of the slatted back. “I must thank Buck.”

When she started to rise, he waved her back down. “Tomorrow. He’s in the cutting pen.”

With a deep sigh, he lowered himself into his own rocker. “It’s nice to have my chair back,” he said as he settled into a steady but overly vigorous rhythm.

“I never had your chair. Is this a race? Slow down.”

“You’ve got rules about rocking, too?” But he nonetheless adjusted his rhythm until they rocked in a perfectly matched tempo.

She smiled, enjoying the gentle motion of her new rocker, the beautiful evening, the company of the man beside her.
I could be happy here.

“Give me your hand.”

She looked over to see Brady holding out his hand, palm up. “Why?”

“So I can hold it.”

“Why do you want to hold it?”

“Because the sun’s down and I’m afraid of the dark. Or because you’ve been ogling me like a buyer at a cattle auction and I figured I’d give you a treat. Or because I like doing it. Just give me your damn hand.”

She gave him her hand. His palm was warm and rough against hers, his fingers long enough to encircle hers in a sturdy grip. It made her feel secure and safe and petite. “I was not ogling,” she said after they had rocked for a while.

“You were.”

“I was noticing. There is a difference.”

He leaned closer until his shoulder rubbed against hers as they rocked. “And what did you notice?”

“You need a haircut and a shave, and you have very large feet.” Confident that she had taken him down a peg, she gave him a wide smile.

For a moment he blinked at her, clearly surprised. Then a chuckle rumbled through his chest, followed by another and another until he was in full laughter. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

She tried to snatch her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her go. “I have no idea what you find so amusing. Release my hand.”

Instead he lifted it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “You know what they say about the size of a man’s feet, don’t you?”

To her horror she remembered something George once said. Big hands, big feet, big . . . hearts? Or parts?
Good heavens.
Why was she forever tumbling into these pits of her own making? No wonder he laughed at her. It was so absurd she was hard-pressed not to do the same.

He nipped the tip of her middle finger.

She tried to pull away.

He tightened his grip.

“This conversation is over,” she said firmly, trying to ignore the tickle of his mustache against the back of her hand.

“Maybe someday I’ll show you just how big my—”

“Hush!”

“—feet really are.”

“I have seen your feet and I was not impressed.”

“Ouch.”

This time the laughter burst out before she could quell it. Was there ever a more ridiculous pair than the two of them in their rockers, trading jabs and innuendoes like sparring lovers or old friends? But they were neither, were they? She sighed.
I shall miss this,
she thought with sharp and sudden clarity.
I shall miss the companionship, the banter, the teasing. And him.
With that thought came the alarming realization that she had permitted herself to care for Brady Wilkins more than she should.

He must have sensed her change of mood. He gave her a questioning look she couldn’t answer. The rocking slowed. With his free hand, he reached across to brush his fingertips down the side of her face. “Stop worrying, Jessica. Everything will work out.”

“Will it?” she whispered, wanting so badly to believe.

He leaned forward, pressed his lips gently against hers, then sat back. “I give you my word.”

Such a simple thing, a kiss. But the sweet promise of it brought an ache to her heart.
You will be the ruination of me,
she thought, staring out into the night.
But I fear I’m too lost to care.

 

 

AS THE DAYS PASSED, JESSICA SPENT MORE AND MORE EVENINGS on the porch with Brady, holding hands while they rocked in tempo. Sometimes they sat without speaking, simply enjoying the sunset in companionable silence. Other times Elena or the brothers joined them, or several of the ranch hands stopped by. At first, unwilling to invite speculation, she had tried to slip her hand from his. But he simply tightened his grip, leaving her no choice but to brazen it out, and pretend it was not unusual to be swollen with one man’s twin babies, while she held the hand of another. After a while she almost believed it herself.

But the best evenings were when they talked. She told him about Bickersham Hall and Mama’s long illness and how difficult it had been after Papa died and George left. He told her about screwworm and gotch ear, and how a Brahma could handle ticks but not cold. When she spoke of grouse hunts and riding to the hounds on a misty fall morning, he described snake hunts and riding for his life ahead of a Kiowa war party. It was less a meeting of minds than a collision of cultures. And a fascinating glimpse into a world she’d never imagined.