Pieces of Sky (44 page)

After Ben had finished and Jessica had changed his drawers, they played with him for a while. Everything about him fascinated Brady, from the tiny toes to the downy red fuzz on his head to the way his little hand took ahold of his finger and his heart. A fleeting thought of the man who’d fathered the baby intruded, but Brady pushed it away. Ben was his son, not Crawford’s, and he wouldn’t think of it any other way.

When Ben’s eyes started to droop, Jessica rose and returned him to his crib.

Brady watched her move about the room. Even though she wore her robe, just picturing all the curves and hollows it hid sent blood humming through his body.

It embarrassed him to be so out of control. And when she bent over the cradle to sing Ben to sleep, and he found himself staring at her soft, round bottom with all manner of raunchy ideas bouncing through his head, Brady realized he had to put some distance between them or he’d be on her again like a drooling fifteen-year-old.

He sat up and reached for his trousers. “You hungry?”

She turned. Her gaze slid down to his lap then quickly away. Color inched up her neck even as a siren’s smile tugged at the corners of her wide mouth. Slowly she moved toward him, her nearly unbuttoned robe showing tantalizing glimpses of those long legs with every step. She stopped at his knees, let her gaze drop, then move up to meet his. “He certainly seems to be.”

Sweet Jesus.
Never—not once—in a single one of his sweaty dreams about Her Ladyship had he ever thought they would have a conversation about his privates. Grinning, he let his trousers drop to the floor and he pulled her closer. “Do you post?”

“Letters?” she asked innocently.

“On horseback.”

“Sidesaddle?”

“I was thinking astride, but we can try that later if you’d like.” And lifting her astraddle his lap, he proceeded to give her a second and even more enjoyable lesson in the finer points of Western-style horsemanship.

 

 

“NOW ARE YOU HUNGRY?” HE ASKED LATER, ONCE HIS HEART had slowed and he was able to think again.

She pulled her robe closed. “I do believe I am.”

He set her onto the bed beside him and, while he still had some control left, did up the more crucial of her buttons. “Anything left from supper?”

Knowing the brothers, Jessica doubted it. “There may be some ham in the larder.” She watched the play of muscles across his shoulders as he bent to retrieve his trousers from the floor. On impulse she reached out to stroke the long hard-muscled plane of his back. She couldn’t help herself. She was a creature she no longer recognized, driven by urges and emotions beyond her experience. He was her obsession, the blood pumping through her body, the marrow in her bones. With his magical touch he had driven out the fear and awakened within her a need and a passion she had never known was there.

She was changed forever.

Perhaps she would regret it tomorrow. But for now, she reveled in him—in the salty taste of his skin, the husky whisper of his voice, the feel of his body, like heated marble, beneath her stroking palm. He was utterly beautiful to her.

He grinned over his shoulder at her. “At least let me eat something to get my strength back.”

Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? She should have been mortified. Instead, she laughed and lightly scored his back with her nails, leaving faint red lines on the smooth sun-browned skin. “Dolt.”

He stood. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said as he padded barefoot across the room. “I’ve got plans for you.” At the door, he turned and gave her a satyr’s grin. “Ever play leapfrog?”

“You’re depraved.”

“Exactly.” Laughing softly, he slipped into the hall.

Jessica fell back across the bed and watched lamplight dance across the ceiling. Was it real? Was the fear truly gone? Had this night truly happened?

Her body said it had. She ached in unusual places, had whisker scrapes in other unusual places, and felt as wrung out as a charwoman’s washrag. But she also felt like a woman well and truly loved. And no matter what tomorrow might bring, she would never regret that.

 

 

AS BRADY CAME INTO THE KITCHEN FROM THE LARDER, HIS arms full of assorted edibles, he heard an odd noise, like cracking wood, coming from the direction of the barn. His first thought was that his brothers had ridden in, then that Bullshot had chewed through the hitching post. But even as he dumped his plunder onto the table, he discounted both notions. He’d heard no horses, and when last he looked, Bullshot was working on the rope, not the post.

That itchy, anxious feeling returned full force.

He quickly blew out the lamp and moved to the window.

Dim moonlight highlighted the angular shapes of the barn and corrals. Even though everything was in shades of gray, he could make out the larger details. The barn doors were closed, as he’d left them. The loft opening was a dark hole, but he couldn’t see Rufus in the shadows. Below it he could make out the water trough and hitching post—no Bullshot—and on the ground near the doors, what looked like a busted crate. The crate Ru had been sitting on. Had it fallen and that was the sound Brady had heard?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Moving quickly down the hall to the office, he grabbed the Winchester, made sure it was loaded, then went back to the kitchen. He peered out the window but saw nothing amiss. The night was silent as a tomb.

He crossed to the hall.

At the door onto the porch he paused to chamber a round into the rifle, then slowly lifted the heavy iron door latch. He slipped outside. For a moment he hung in the shadows, letting his eyes fully adjust to the darkness while he scanned the yard and barn. No movement. The cabins and bunkhouse were dark. Not even a cricket chirped. On bare feet, he moved down the steps and across the yard.

The object by the doors was a busted crate. Ru had probably dozed off, slipped from the crate, and in the process, accidentally kicked it out the loft opening.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

He moved toward the barn. The doors were closed but not bolted. Yet he remembered sliding the wooden crossbar into place after getting Bullshot’s tie rope. He knew better than to leave the barn open at night, especially in grizzly and cougar country. Something was wrong and his gut told him what.

Sancho.

Finally.

A sense of exhilaration swept through him. Then he thought of Jessica and Ben and Sam and all the others he had fought so hard to protect, and that sudden burst of energy settled into a cold and desperate resolve. He would end this now, and if both he and Sancho died in the process, then at least those left behind would be free of this damn feud.

But he had no intention of dying. Not tonight. And not by Sancho’s hand.

He considered his options. There weren’t many. He debated going to the cabins for more men. But if Ru was hurt and Brady went for help, that would leave the house unprotected—with Jessica and Ben and Elena inside. And if he went back for them, that would leave a hurt or dying man in the barn with Sancho.

He was on his own, and he had to make his move now before Sancho got into the house or set another fire. He took a deep breath, let it out. Flattening against the wall of the barn, he crept forward, rifle cocked and ready.

Movement behind him.

He whirled. But before he could find a target, something slammed into the side of his head.

He staggered, felt the rifle slip from his hands, then his legs gave way.

Twenty-two

JESSICA TOOK ADVANTAGE OF BRADY’S ABSENCE TO DO A QUICK wash and don a fresh gown, then she brushed the tangles from her hair and tied it back with a ribbon. The air had cooled as it did in the middle of the night, so she put on a heavier robe and made sure Adrian was well covered. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Brady.

Her intended. The man she was going to marry. Her lover.

She pressed her fingertips against her lips to keep from laughing aloud. Who would have thought such a thing possible? Certainly not she. Four months ago she had been in desperate flight, pregnant and alone with an uncertain future—a future that almost ended under the hot desert sky. Yesterday she had been so burdened with fear she had almost condemned herself to a lifetime of loneliness. Now she was to be married to a strong, decent man with battered hands and a craggy face that hid a kind and loving heart. How unpredictable and wondrous life could be.

Not that the fear was gone forever. She knew a small part of it would always remain, but no longer would she allow it to rule her. It was manageable now, easily tucked into a back corner of her mind where it would gradually fade into another unpleasant memory best left alone. Brady had done that for her. He had freed her. For that gift she would love him forever.

For that and other things as well.

She flopped back onto the bed as memories rushed over her.
Hallelujah, indeed
.

She realized she must have dozed off when something sent her lurching upright, her heart pounding. Groggy and disoriented, she glanced around. Brady hadn’t returned. Adrian slept peacefully in his crib. Then what? She went to the door, but saw no one in the hall and no light in the direction of the kitchen. Curious, she stepped into her slippers and left the room.

The kitchen was empty. Although the lamp was unlit, there was enough moonlight coming through the window for her to see the food scattered in disarray across the tabletop. But no Brady.

Uneasy, she went back into the hall. Seeing the door onto the porch ajar, she went outside. He wasn’t there either. She was becoming concerned when she noticed the faint yellow glow of lamplight shining through a crack in the barn door. He must be checking on Bullshot. The poor dog had developed the most annoying habit of howling his displeasure at being penned up and Brady must have gone to quiet him. Not that he could. The man was incapable of disciplining the rambunctious hound and was doubtless bribing him instead.

Smiling, she went down the steps and across the yard. As she approached the doors, she saw something on the ground beside a broken crate. Alarmed, she stopped and scanned it from a safe distance. Because of its long shape, she thought at first it was a snake, then she saw the glint of moonlight off metal and realized it was Brady’s rifle. She studied it in confusion, knowing he would never toss it onto the ground nor be so careless as to leave it out in the night air. Careful lest it was loaded, she picked it up.

She was no stranger to long guns. Papa had taught her and George to use his scattergun and had even allowed her to accompany them on a few grouse hunts. But she had no experience with repeating rifles. Even so, she could see that the hammer was back, which meant it was cocked and ready to fire. Had he been preparing to shoot but was interrupted before he could? Shoot at what?

Voices rose in the barn. She recognized Brady’s low rumble even if she couldn’t make out the words. The other was heavily accented, angry. She stiffened, suddenly alert. Rifle in hand, she eased forward to peer through the gap in the unlatched doors.

Her heart lurched in her chest.

Brady was lashed to the center pole, his wrists bound by a rope hanging from the overhead beam. Blood was everywhere—oozing from a cut on his temple, streaking down his arms from his lacerated wrists, running in red rivulets from two long cuts below his collarbones. It soaked the waistband of his trousers and stained the straw at his feet.

For a stunned moment she couldn’t move or think. Then she saw Sancho and the bloody knife in his hand. When he stepped toward Brady, she flew into motion. “Stop!” she cried, yanking open the door.

Sancho whirled.

“Put it down!” she ordered, aiming the wobbling rifle barrel at his chest. “Now!”

“Shoot! Do it!”

Startled, she looked at Brady, scarcely recognizing his voice. His eyes were wild with terror. She knew that look, that fear. Trapped. Tied. Helpless.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sancho rush toward her.

She jumped back, heard motion behind her, and squeezed the trigger just as Bullshot hurtled through the door, crashing against her hip and knocking her off balance. Noise exploded in her head. The recoil sent her staggering backward. Bullshot lunged for Sancho.

The barn erupted in chaos—snarls, shouts, screaming. Panting with terror, she struggled to pull the hammer back. Her fingers felt numb. It took her two tries before it snapped into the cocked position. She raised the rifle just as Sancho landed a vicious kick that sent the hound slamming against a stall door. With a yelp of pain, the dog crumpled into the straw.

Sancho swung toward her.

She squeezed the trigger.

The hammer clicked down, but the rifle didn’t fire.

“Work the lever!” Brady shouted.

Desperately, she thumbed the hammer back. Squeezed again. Click.

Sancho kept coming.

Blood roared through her head. Her hands shook so badly her fingers wouldn’t work as she tried to cock the hammer a third time.

“Work the lever! Work the lever!”

Then it was too late.

Sancho yanked the rifle from her hands and drove his fist against the side of her head.

Pain blinded her. She slammed to the ground, ears ringing. She heard Brady yelling as Ramirez kicked her in the side, driving the air from her lungs. Then he jerked her to her feet and locked his arm around her throat, cutting off her air. She bucked, raking at him with her nails, as blackness crowded the edges of her vision. Growling like a beast, he dragged her toward the stalls, lifted the smoking lantern from a hook, then dragged her toward Brady.

Gasping for air, Jessica clung to the arm around her throat. Surely someone had heard the gunshot. Surely someone would come.
God send them now.