Pieces of Sky (41 page)

Always on guard, never at peace
. But who guards you, Brady?

“Did you talk to Elena?” she asked after a lengthy silence.

He nodded, his attention focused on the cottonwoods by the creek.

“Isn’t it wonderful news?”

“It is. Although I’m not sure I like her traveling all that way on her own.”

“Perhaps I’ll go with her.” She regretted the words as soon as she heard them. Why had she said such a thing when she hadn’t even made the decision?

He went utterly still. Slowly his head turned toward her. “To San Francisco?”

She shrugged and wiped her palms on her skirt, fearful of what she might have set in motion with her foolish prattle. “It’s a big city. I thought there might be a market for my hats there. Enough to support Adrian and myself.”

“I see.” The clipped tone told her he was angry.

Which spurred her to greater folly. “But then I thought . . . how can I leave this place? My daughter is buried here. I have friends here, people I . . . care about. I can’t leave.”
Ninny.
Even to her own ear, it sound like gibberish. When would she learn to shut her mouth?

A pause. “So you’re staying?”

“Yes—no. I’m not sure.” She realized she gripped her hands so tightly her nails had left crescent-shaped marks in her skin. “After what happened, I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“Do you want to stay?”

She forced herself to look at him. He was frowning—not surprising insomuch as she was babbling like a witless fool. “Do you want me to stay? I mean, after I, well—I wasn’t sure if—”

“Christ!”

She blinked in surprise as he clasped hands to his temples and almost shouted, “You’re killing me!” He stalked away, whirled, covered the distance back in two long strides, and before Jessica realized his intent, he grabbed her by the shoulders, yanked her off the bench, and kissed her.

It was unlike any kiss he’d given her before. No gentle coaxing this time, but an assault on her senses—a demand—so filled with need, it overrode reason and even fear.

The female within her responded. She leaned into him, desperate to breathe him in, to feel his big body against hers, to surrender to the power of his touch.

He pulled back, breathing hard through clenched teeth. “How can you walk away from that?” he demanded harshly, his fingers biting into her shoulders.

Before she could answer, he thrust her away. “Damnit, Jessica.” Dragging his hands through his hair, he stalked a tight circle. “I can’t do this anymore.” He slowed to a stop. Hands falling to his hips, he stared up at the fading sky as if asking for patience, help, deliverance.

From her?

“Jessica, I can’t spend the rest of my life holding hands on the porch,” he said, his voice sounding harsher than he intended. “I can’t be around you and not want more.” Even now, the need to touch her was like a fire inside him. Why was she making such a simple thing so complicated?

Say something!
he wanted to shout.

But she just stared at him, one hand pressed to her mouth.

Her silence defeated him. He didn’t know what else to do, what she wanted from him. He’d shown her in every way he knew that she could trust him. If that wasn’t enough, words wouldn’t help. He sighed, too weary to fight it anymore. “It’s getting dark. We’d best head back while we can see where we’re stepping.”

She nodded, still so rattled she couldn’t marshal her thoughts. She had no idea what had just happened or what it meant. But she felt a terrible emptiness spreading inside.

Without speaking, Brady swung open the gate for her, closed it behind them, then fell into step beside her as they started down the hill. Wind rushed up the slope, billowing her skirts and peppering them with fine grit. As it swept over the hilltop, the long mesquite pods made a noise like rattling bones—a terrible, lonely sound that echoed the hollow feeling within her heart. In desperation she reached for Brady’s hand.

He glanced over at her, then quickly away. But when she threaded her fingers through his, his hand closed around hers in a tight grip—too tight. She didn’t mind. He was her anchor, her salvation, her hope.

And at that moment, like stones once tossed into the air finally falling back to earth, all her scattered thoughts and conflicted emotions tumbled into place, and everything made sense at last.

She didn’t need someone to save her, or shield her, or make all her problems go away. She just needed someone to love her. If she had that, she could do the rest. She just had to make sure he loved her, and that she had the courage to love him back.

And with sudden and sharp clarity, Jessica knew what she had to do.

 

 

AS SOON AS THEY REACHED THE HOUSE, BRADY COLLECTED HIS rifle and left to make his rounds, needing to put distance between himself and Jessica. She had him twisting in the wind and he didn’t like it or know what to do about it. He ought to just throw her down and be done with it. The idea had some appeal but not much merit.
Hell.

He had already posted guards; Rufus in the barn loft, Putnam by the creek, Langley patrolling the cabins, and Sandoval keeping an eye on the bunkhouse and cookhouse. He was convinced Sancho would make his move soon or not at all.

Unless he was dead.

Jessica might have nicked an artery when she stabbed him, or infection might have pulled him down. They had found no blood trail after the fire, but they could have missed it.

Or Sancho could be waiting for an unguarded moment. He didn’t seem interested in taking the bait Brady had put out there, namely himself, so he might be planning to come to the house again. Brady wanted to be ready if he did.

As he crossed the yard, he glanced up to see Rufus sitting on a crate just inside the opening into the loft. “How’s it going, Ru?” he called out.

“Like a church on Monday, Boss.”

“Is Hank around?”

“He and Jack went to the north pasture to check on a new foal.”

Brady nodded and swung open the barn door. A shadow hurled out of the darkness and would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t been expecting it.

“Down!” he ordered, trying to hold Bullshot off without hurting him or getting either of them tangled in the tie rope. Once he had the animal somewhat under control, he checked the wide bandage around the dog’s ribs. It showed no seepage, so Brady left it alone. Other than a lingering stiffness on the left side, the hound seemed to be healing well.

Brady scratched a floppy ear. “What’d you chew up today?” He glanced around, relieved to note nothing new in the assortment of half-gnawed items strewn across the floor. They had already lost a saddle blanket, a breast collar, a slicker, and an old bridle to the dog’s irritation at being tied up in the barn for so long. “You want out, don’t you, fella?”

The dog whined and pressed against his leg.

“Why not?” He untied the rope, preferring to have the hound’s sharp nose sniffing around the compound than cooped up in the barn. “You can make my rounds with me.” Before the words were out, the hound bounded through the door, nose to the ground.

Brady checked on Sandoval, then swung through the cabins. All was quiet. He enjoyed a slice of Iantha’s sweet tater pie with Buck, then headed down to the creek.

It was his favorite time of day—enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes away, the sky a fiery wash fading behind the mountains, and all around him the scents and sounds of RosaRoja. But tonight, mostly what he noticed was the stillness, like before a lightning storm or a norther blew in, as if the whole world held its breath, waiting. It signaled change of an undisclosed nature, and that always made him nervous.

He found Putnam leaning against the message rock and Bullshot hunting frogs in the reeds by the edge of the creek.

“Almost shot your hound,” Putnam said. “Thought he was a puma the way he tore out of the brush.”

Brady looked in disgust at the dog snuffling and floundering in the water. “I was hoping to use his nose tonight, but he’s probably snorted up so much water he couldn’t even smell Red if he snuck up and kicked him in the butt.”

Putnam laughed. “I don’t know. Red’s pretty ripe. The boys are threatening to toss him on the manure pile to sweeten him up.”

Brady watched cattle moving to water on the opposite bank. They seemed calm, but how smart was a cow? “Things pretty quiet?”

“Quiet enough to hear a mouse fart.”

Brady nodded. Slapping his leg to get the hound’s attention, he said good night and headed back toward the house. Bullshot charged ahead, limping a little more from his exertions but still game. Brady tossed a stick. The hound snatched it from the ground, then stopped dead. His head lowered. The stick fell from his mouth as a low growl rumbled in his throat.

Brady ducked behind a cottonwood, rifle up. He scanned the trail ahead, saw nothing. The hill. Nothing. Thirty yards behind him, Putnam idly tossed rocks into the creek. He glanced back at the hound. Bullshot stood motionless, ears cocked toward the hill, a ridge of hair quivering along his neck and shoulders.

Brady squinted into the fading light. The mesquite tree stood silhouetted against the muted sky, its drooping branches the only things moving in the gentle breeze. He slowed his breathing and listened. Cows, crickets, a bobwhite. Quiet evening sounds, except for Bullshot’s low growl.

Then near the base of the hill something moved.

Brady flattened against the tree trunk, following it with the rifle. Bullshot inched forward, his head tracking the same arc.

From down the valley came a yodeling howl. At the base of the hill, an answering bark.

A coyote.
Christ.

Brady let out the breath he’d been holding and lowered the rifle. After a moment, he stepped back onto the trail, slapping his leg to call Bullshot.

The hound came reluctantly, his hackles still up, his head swiveling toward the hill every third stride. Ten yards farther and he was nosing the weeds again. “You’re worthless,” Brady said.

The hound looked up with a grin, then stuck his prized nose into a mouse hole.

Still uneasy, Brady angled toward the corrals. The horses rested quietly, heads drooping, ears relaxed. He went on to the barn. “Hey, Ru.”

Footsteps thudded, then a face peered down from the loft opening. “Yessir?”

“You hear anything?” Brady asked.

“Nothing but you two. Why?”

“Bullshot’s acting strange.”

“He’s a strange dog.”

“Check the hill. Anything odd?”

Ru looked up, then back at Brady. “Nothing. What’s going on?”

Brady watched the hound dig in the straw pile for mice. “Nothing, I guess. But if you hear anything, call out or fire a round. Something feels off.”

“Yessir.”

Retrieving the tie rope from the barn, Brady tied Bullshot to the hitching post beside the door. “Sorry, boy,” he told the pouting hound. “I need every hand I can muster tonight.” With a final pat on the drooping head, he crossed to the porch steps.

At the door, he paused for a final look around.

Ru lounged on the crate in the loft opening. Laughter drifted from the bunkhouse. The horses rested peacefully, and his well-trained watchdog busily gnawed on his rope. Still, that itchy feeling persisted. Maybe he was still strung tight because of Jessica. Or overtired. Or just impatient for Sancho to make his move.

Maybe.

With a sigh, he pushed open the door. What he needed was a drink.

 

 

JESSICA STARED IN PANIC AT HER REFLECTION IN THE CHEVAL mirror. Her hair was almost dry from her bath, her robe was buttoned all the way up to her chin, and the face staring back at her had the expression of a felon facing the chopping block.

How could she do this?

How could she go on if she didn’t?

With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the top button on her satin robe. Then two more. She tested a smile. The reflection grimaced back. Pulling two long curls over her shoulders, she spread them out so they covered her breasts.

She practiced smiling, achieving better results each time. Then she heard footsteps moving past her door, followed by the muted thud of the office door closing.

He was back.

It was time.

She felt like laughing, crying, casting up her accounts—as nervous as a fainthearted debutante at her first ball, or a virgin headed for sacrifice. Alas, she was too old for one, and too used for the other.

On trembling legs, she moved silently down the hall, and out onto the porch.

 

BRADY TIPPED THE NEAR-EMPTY WHISKEY BOTTLE INTO HIS tin cup and cursed Doc for drinking him dry. Again. Could this day get any worse? Sancho lurking out there somewhere, Jack talking about Australia again, Hank itching to get to Fort Union, Elena packing for San Francisco, and Jessica . . . hell, he had no idea what she was doing.