Pieces of Sky (51 page)

A half hour later Jack returned and stuffed clean clothes into his saddlebag.

“You have money?” Brady asked.

“Some. Enough.”

Brady pulled a pouch from his pocket. “Here’s more. And a voucher.”

Jack stared at the items Brady held out, then met Brady’s amused smirk. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he said, adding them to his saddlebag.

“Pretty sure of you. If you cut north, you can catch them at the Bridge Creek stopover. I’ll send one of the boys to get the horse later.”

Jack nodded. He gathered the reins then turned to Brady.

And suddenly there was nothing more to say.

For a moment they looked at each other, years of memories stretching between them. Finally Brady held out his hand. “Watch your back and take care of Elena.”

Jack took his hand in a strong grip. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

Brady cuffed him on the side of the head. “Get going. I got things to do.”

“Like going after Jessica?”

“Maybe. I’ll think on it.” Not that thinking would change anything.

Jack stepped into the stirrup.

Brady battled a sudden impulse to pull him back, make him stay where he could keep him safe. Instead, he rested a hand on the horse’s neck and looked up at his brother. He forced a smile. “You turned out all right, Jack. I’m proud of you.”

The grin spreading over Jack’s face told Brady he should have said it sooner.

“Thanks, Ma.” With a tip of his hat, Jack rode away.

Brady watched until he disappeared over the far ridge, then walked back toward the cabins. As he trudged up Buck’s steps, he wondered when he’d started feeling so old.

 

 

ROUNDUP CAME AND WENT. DESPITE WINTER LOSSES, THEY had a good crop of calves, and Brady began to feel mildly optimistic. The fall Reservation bid was due in two months, and if they did as well as he hoped, they might be able to start curing logs for the house.

It had been a hard year. Seeing his family dwindle had taken its toll on him, and that feeling of aloneness cut more keenly than it ever had before. He saw himself fifteen years down the road, standing before a restored RosaRoja and reveling in his accomplishment, only to look around and find himself standing there alone. It disturbed him, made him question things he’d never questioned before.

“How long you going to mope around?” Hank asked at supper one evening in July.

It was a Saturday night. Most of the men were either chasing women in Val Rosa or playing cards in the bunkhouse. He and Hank were alone in the makeshift tack shed that also served as their sleeping quarters, enjoying some of Iantha’s leftovers and their first sit-down meal in a week.

“I’m not moping. I’m thinking. There’s a difference.”

Hank studied him, his cheeks bunching as he chewed. “So what are you
thinking
of doing?”

“About what?”

“Jessica.”

Brady blinked at him, wondering at the question. They never discussed Jessica. In fact, with Hank being about as talkative as a trout, they hardly spoke at all. Which suited Brady fine. He didn’t have much to say either.

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Hank offered, reaching for the butter crock.

Brady put down his fork and sat back. “I thought you swore off women.”

“For her I’ll make an exception.”

Brady forced a laugh. “She wouldn’t have you.” At least he hoped not. But he hadn’t seen a woman yet who didn’t react when his brother tamed the hair and turned on the charm.

Hank glanced over, that slow smile moving across his face, the one that turned women into simpering simpletons throughout the territory. “You think not?”

Brady picked up his fork and stabbed a beet. “You’d have to shave.”

Hank shrugged. “A small sacrifice, considering. Any potatoes left?”

“No. And why are we talking about Jessica?”

“A woman like her is too good to waste. Pass the collards then.”

Brady shoved the bowl toward him. “She’s not wasted. She’s just gone back to where she belongs.” He knew Hank wasn’t truly interested in Jessica that way and suspected he was trying to bait him into doing something foolish. Well, he wouldn’t bite. He’d made his decision. End of conversation.

“You think I should go after her, is that it?” he heard himself say.

His brother gave him that silent stare that always made Brady uneasy.

“And do what, Hank? Bring her back here? To this?” Brady waved an arm at the unfinished walls, the rough-cut floor, the saddles piled in the corner. “She deserves better.”

“You done with the beans?”

 

 

TWO DAYS LATER, THEY SAT IN THE CORNER OF THE LOAFING shed, where they’d set up a temporary office—Brady with his boots propped on a keg of nails as he thumbed through a cattleman’s catalog and Hank hunched over the plank desk, reviewing the latest tally.

Brady hadn’t slept well lately. Worries were piling up and he felt like time was running against him. And thanks to Hank, he’d been thinking of Jessica and Ben too much, fretting over things he couldn’t do anything about.

“Maybe the Army needs fresh beef until the bids this fall,” Hank said after a while. “We can spare a few yearlings.”

“How many?” Brady asked, turning the page.

“Thirty-seven. Maybe forty. Might bring in enough to finish the bunkhouse.”

Brady didn’t question Hank’s assessment. His brother had a born knack for figures and could store the most astounding facts under that bushy dome of his.

“’Course you’d have to ride to the Army post,” Hank added doubtfully. “I know how reluctant you are to leave the ranch.”

“I’m not reluctant. I just don’t have a reason.” When his brother didn’t respond, Brady lowered the catalog to his lap. “This is about Jessica again, isn’t it?”

“Did I say anything about Jessica?” Hank pulled a hardware pamphlet from the stack on the end of the table and began leafing through it.

“You think I should go to England, don’t you?”

“What do you think of these hinges?” Tagging an illustration with his finger, Hank held up the page for Brady to see.

“Maybe learn to drink tea from a fancy china cup? Ride around on one of those silly pancake saddles? That’s a fine idea.”

Hank studied the drawing. “They’ll last longer than leather and be a damn sight cheaper than the ones the smithy makes.”

Brady looked out the double doors at Iantha digging in the new vegetable garden. They’d already harvested peas and beets and collards, and the corn and potatoes were coming along well. But would it be enough? Would anything ever be enough?

“I can’t go to England,” he said. “I’m needed here.”

“I’ll order three sets,” Hank decided. “One for here and two for the loft.”

Brady picked up the catalog again. “Don’t forget the pump house.”

“Four, then.”

 

 

IT WAS EARLY AUGUST. THE AIR WAS SO HOT AND THICK WITH dust the sunset was a riotous wash of color across the western sky. Summer sunsets were a wonderment to Brady—that last fiery battle before the day died—so violent to the eye, yet so silent to the ear.

This evening the biting flies were out in full force as he watched Hank work his magic on a headstrong, dish-faced gelding that wasn’t taking kindly to being sacked out. But if anyone could manner a dodgy horse, Hank could. He had a knack with animals, too. After an hour both Hank and the roan dripped sweat but they seemed to have reached a point of mutual respect and cooperation.

“I think he’ll do,” Hank said, leading the horse over to where Brady leaned against the fence, arms folded across the top rail.

“His eyes are different colors,” Brady noted.

“They both work.”

“Seems indecisive. Hard to trust an animal that can’t make up its mind.”

Hank gave him a look but said nothing.

Brady watched his brother rub the horse with a burlap sack, moving it slowly over the animal’s face and ears, along its belly then up and down its legs. The roan allowed it without protest. Satisfied, Hank slipped off the bridle and gave the weary horse a final pat.

“I bet they don’t have sunsets like this in England,” Brady said.

Hank didn’t respond.

“Not that it matters. I’ll never go to England.”

“He’s got a nice slope to his pasterns,” Hank observed, watching the horse wander across the paddock looking for a place to roll. “Should be a smooth trotter.”

“Why should I? Nothing’s changed. I’m still poor as dirt. She would do better with that tea-sipper Percival Bothingham
the Third
.”

The horse flopped to the ground. Churning up dust and flies, it rolled from side to side, legs thrashing.

“But you’re still thinking I should go after her, aren’t you?”

The horse regained its feet. After shaking like a wet dog, it backed toward a fence post.

“Nice withers, too,” Hank said. “Should keep the saddle from sliding. Especially if you ride English-style.”

“Which I don’t.”

Unbuckling his
chaparreras
, Hank tossed them over the fence rail.

Brady watched the horse rock side to side, rubbing its butt on the rough wood. “Maybe I should go after her.”

Hank rested his elbow on the top rail and looked at him.

“Yeah. I could go after her and bring her back. And if she won’t come . . . then . . . well . . .”

Brady wondered why his brother showed no reaction to this momentous decision. Didn’t he realize Brady might never come back?

Having attended its itchy places, the roan wandered over to stand expectantly by his new best friend, hoping for another rubdown, no doubt.

“Unless you think I shouldn’t.”

Hank shook his head. “What I think is you’re dumber than a bucket of rocks. That’s what I think.” Muttering, he turned and walked away.

The roan snorted, either in protest to Hank’s leaving, or in agreement with his assessment.

“Well. Okay, then.” Brady nodded to the horse. “Talked me into it.”

The horse wandered away, tail swishing at flies.

Brady watched an eagle float past on invisible currents, chasing its earthbound shadow across the rocky ground. The day was so still, he could hear the whisper of wind across the glossy feathers. Did they have eagles in England, he wondered. Or mountains? Or desert storms that could light up the night sky?

A feeling of panic gripped him. He felt like a man perched on the edge of a cliff, a fifty-foot drop in front of him and a twelve-foot grizzly at his back.

Then he thought of Jessica—and how beautiful she looked in the moonlight, and how perfectly she fit in his arms—and everything settled. Doubt faded. Chaos dimmed. And in its place, spreading through his mind like rain over parched earth, was the most profound sense of completion he’d ever known.

It felt good. And right. And how it was supposed to be.

Feeling as if the weight of the world had slipped from his shoulders, he looked east, past the foothills and the mountains to the endless stretches of sky that lay between them.

“Hold on, Jessica. I’m on my way.”

THINGS CHANGE.

Sometimes it happened slowly over a span of years, in increments so small the changes went unnoticed until one day you looked in a mirror and saw a stranger wearing your face and you wondered when the hell you got to be so old.

Or sometimes it came like a light at the end of a long tunnel of doubt and confusion, growing brighter and stronger with every step . . . like his decision to go after Jessica.

Or sometimes it happened so suddenly it left a man staggering blindly for balance. That’s how it was on that August morning when Brady and Hank took the dynamiter up to seal Sancho’s cave. It was Brady’s last task before he left for England, his way of shutting the door on the past so he could get on with the future.

It was a beautiful day with cotton ball clouds building behind the peaks and a gentle breeze out of the west that smelled like rain. The kind of day he would miss in England. While the dynamiter laid his charges, Brady waited with Hank at the foot of the slope, his mind weighted down by memories. He didn’t want to look back anymore. It was time to bury those memories with Sancho and look ahead to a new beginning with Jessica and Ben.

“All clear?” the dynamiter called from his perch halfway up the slope.

“All clear,” Hank shouted back.

The dynamiter struck the match to the fuse, then a puff of smoke raced up the rocky slope and disappeared into the cave. They waited. From deep inside the mountain came a muffled boom, followed by a rumbling sound that grew louder until it erupted in a thunderous belch of dust and rubble as the entrance collapsed.

Silence, except for the clatter of pebbles and rocks bouncing down the slope.

Then Brady felt the ground shiver beneath his feet. On the slope, more rocks tumbled free. Then more. And suddenly, in a hellish roar of cascading boulders and trees and brush, half the hillside and a shrieking dynamiter came barreling down the slope toward them.