Pieces of Sky (52 page)

They barely escaped with their lives. Once the dust settled and Brady found his footing again, he saw that Hank had a bloody gash on his forehead and the dynamiter, apparently a man new to his job, shook so badly he kept falling over. Or maybe his leg was broken. Brady was so mad he didn’t care.

“What the hell was that?” he shouted, still reeling from a dozen cuts and bruises and maybe even a cracked rib.

“Christamighty . . .” From his sprawled position, the dynamiter gaped up at what was left of the slope.

“You could have gotten us killed, you stupid bastard! Where are the horses? Somebody get the horses. Hank, quit bleeding.” Belatedly, Brady realized neither the dynamiter nor Hank paid him any heed as they stared past him at where the cave used to be. He turned.

Air rushed from his lungs. His mouth fell open.

“Is that what I think it is?” Hank choked out.

“It is,” the dynamiter said in an awed voice. “Unless I miss my guess, that’s one helluva vein of silver ore.”

Sonofabitch.
Brady’s legs folded and he plopped down onto a toppled boulder. After a moment of stunned silence, he dropped his head into his hands and began to laugh.

Redeemed at last. Praise the Lord.

 

 

WITHIN THE WEEK HE HAD THE HOUSE PLANS DRAWN AND supplies ordered. Then he renamed the ranch Wilkins Cattle & Mining, had Phineas Higgins set up a mining company, and hired an engineer to run it. By the end of the month, construction had begun on the stamp mill and concentrator, mining machinery was on the way, and he had a railway engineer surveying for a short haul line to carry the ore from the mine to the proposed branch off the Transcontinental. Finally, when he was satisfied everything was headed in the right direction and there was nothing more he could do, Brady dumped it all into Hank’s capable hands, told him
adiós
, and left for England.

If he was lucky and didn’t drown at sea or end up on the wrong island, he might make it to Posten Cross before his year deadline was up.

Twenty-six

 

JESSICA STARED AT THE LETTER IN HER HAND, WONDERING WHY she had bothered to write it. He probably wouldn’t receive it until after his year was up, and by then her plans would be in motion.

Putting the letter aside, she crossed the library to stand at the window overlooking the side garden. A soft mist curled through the trees. Roses bowed like ladies-in-waiting, their blossoms weighted down by the morning rain. Somewhere a lark sang, oblivious to the turmoil in her heart.

She turned away. As she did, she caught her reflection in the mirror between the windows, and was arrested anew by how much she had changed over the last year.

Months of rosewater and borax compresses had bleached the freckles from her face. Regular rinses with powdered blue vitriol solution had gradually taken the brassiness from her hair. Exhausting walks, a lack of appetite, and a return to the restriction of a corset had trimmed her new-mother curves. But nothing seemed to alter that lackluster stare in her eyes.

Annie said she was prettier than she had ever been. Percy said she looked mysteriously aloof. Jessica knew it was simply too much heartache and too many sleepless nights.

Well, no more. She was tired of waiting for happiness to come to her. She would find it on her own. If she had learned anything from the ordeal on the desert, it was to snatch all the joy she could in this life and waste no time on regrets.

He had made his decision. Now she had made hers.

Resolved, she crossed to the bell pull and gave it a hard yank, then went back to the desk. She was sealing the letter in a mailing pouch when Dougal pushed open the door, yawning as he scratched the wiry, gray hair at his sideburns. “Aye, lass?”

“Has the post come today?”

“Ye woke me to ask about the mail?”

“You are in service, Dougal. You should be attending your duties, not sleeping.”

The old man reared back, the watery blue eyes round with indignation. “I’m no’ a servant, lass. I’m here because yer da asked me to look after the tew of you. As a guardian. No’ a servant.”

Realizing she shouldn’t be taking out her ire on Dougal, much less engaging in a battle she would never win, Jessica gracefully ceded. “You are correct, Dougal. I apologize.” Smiling sweetly, she held out the letter. “On your way back to your nap, if it’s not too much bother, would you please put this on the foyer table?”

“Aye.” With a show of weary reluctance, he took the letter. “And I’ll check on the post. But only this one time, lass, nae more.” He turned toward the door.

Bracing herself, Jessica added, “And also send someone for Percy Bothingham.”

He stopped, let out a great huff of breath, then swung back. “Ye’ve decided.”

Jessica nodded.

“Then I’m for leaving, lass. I’ll no’ stay and take orders from the likes o’ him.”

“I understand.” Jessica bit back a smile. She dearly loved this cantankerous old man. He had been more of a father to her than Papa ever was. “And where will you go, if I may inquire?”

Dougal scratched the stubble on his chin. “I’ve a mind tae see a buffalo, lass.”

Blinking back tears, she walked over and put her arms around him. “Then you shall,” she whispered against his bristly neck. “And I will happily pay your passage.”

“As well ye should.”

 

 

BRADY ARRIVED IN ENGLAND ON AN OVERCAST MORNING IN late October, desperate for dirt beneath his boots, a bed that didn’t move, and anything to eat that wasn’t salt pork.

He hired a hansom cab—which was English for a two-wheeled covered carriage—and after a quick stop at the Bank of England to exchange the silver in his saddlebags for British currency, he went to the hotel recommended by the ship’s captain, which luckily, was far enough across town the stink from the River Thames was barely noticeable.

Even so, by the time he arrived at his lodgings, he had a headache from all the noise and chaos and crowds that seemed a part of every big city he’d ever been to, which—counting London—was one too many. On the good side, although the weather was dismal and foggy, it wasn’t raining.

The Stilton Hotel was a grand place with shiny marble floors, potted plants as big as trees, and chandeliers that would outweigh a yearling calf. He was careful not to walk under one as he made his way to the front desk with his luggage, which consisted of his saddlebags and saddle—he wasn’t about to ride around on one of those pancake things. He noted the odd looks cast his way. Probably the Stetson. Or maybe the gunbelt. None of the people staring at him wore either.

It reminded him again that if he was to become the kind of man Jessica expected him to be, he might have to make some changes—in appearance anyway.

At the front desk, which was guarded by an elderly fellow who wore the pinched expression of a man who had just caught a whiff of something foul, Brady set the saddle and saddlebags on the marble floor and asked for the biggest bed they had.

The old man’s eyes raked over him. Then he smiled in a way that didn’t involve many facial muscles and said as carefully as if he were addressing a moron, “That would be in the Chamberlain Suite, sir. Our grandest.” He paused to give Brady a sharp look. “And also our most expensive.”

“I’ll take it.” Brady slapped a wad of bank notes atop the counter. “Cash.”

A magic word, it seemed. The fellow instantly became Brady’s dear friend, offering all kinds of services—which he called “amenities”—including that of a barber, a tailor, a valet, and a maid, which was mentioned in an undertone and accompanied by a waggle of white eyebrows.

Brady declined the valet and maid, asking that the barber, the tailor, and several plates of food be sent to his suite. Then he picked up his gear and climbed the wide, curving, gilt and marble staircase to begin his transformation from hardscrabble rancher to high-toned Englishman.

It was harder than he thought. The barber wanted to shave his mustache, which Brady wouldn’t allow, and since Brady had never been fitted for a custom suit, he found the tailor’s groping and measuring a bit unsettling. In addition to a pointy-collared, tight-necked shirt, he was expected to wear something called a “cravat,” which looked like a fluffy bow tie. Luckily, since there was no time to have proper shoes made, he was allowed to keep his boots.

He settled with the barber and paid the tailor double to have the suit and shirt finished by morning, then ate the food sent up—which wasn’t the supper he expected, but something called “high tea”—tasty, but not that filling—then he went back down to the lobby. More stares, but with his fresh shave and haircut, people didn’t scramble out of his way quite as fast as before.

After the innkeeper gave him directions to the nearest livestock yard of good reputation—which he called a “horse mart”—Brady threw the saddle over his shoulder and left the hotel.

The mist had thickened to almost rain, the kind that was near useless and less wet than aggravating. But it was still enough to clear the coal soot from the air and people from the streets. After being cooped up aboard ship for so long, Brady enjoyed the walk.

He hadn’t seen much of England, but of all that he had seen, the English Thoroughbred horse was the best. Tall and lanky, with wide intelligent eyes and an earnest desire to cover ground, it was everything he could want in a mount. If he ever returned to the ranch, which he probably wouldn’t, he’d bring with him some breeding stock and try crossing a Thoroughbred with a mustang. Could be interesting. He smiled, wondering what he’d call it. A Thoroughtang? A Musthorough?

The head groom at the horse mart, a bow-legged little Scotsman with an accent Brady could hardly decipher, was very helpful and forthcoming, especially when he learned he would be paid outright, rather than on credit. He also knew his horseflesh.

After looking over several fine mounts, Brady picked out a leggy bay with three white stockings, a proud headset, and friendly eyes. He was about to give the animal a try, when the Scotsman saw the saddle Brady intended to use.

“Ye’ll break his back, puir thing.”

Which didn’t say much for the horse. But unwilling to argue about it, Brady dropped the saddle, grabbed a handful of mane at the horse’s withers, and vaulted onto the gelding’s back.

The horse was responsive and willing, with an even temperament and a long, smooth stride. By the time Brady had put him through the paces, he knew he’d found a match, and the hostler was grinning. “Ye’ve the hands of a piper and the balance of a Cossack, lad. One of them Wild West cowboys, I’ll warrant.”

Reining in beside the Scotsman, Brady flipped his right leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground. He gave the gelding a pat on the neck. “How much?”

They settled on a price. Then Brady asked the Scotsman for a list of the best-known and most respected stud farms in England. If he was going to give up ranching, he might as well try his hand at horse breeding. Assuming he stayed in England. Which Jessica would probably expect. After the hostler gave him a list of three breeders, and grudging permission to use his own tack on his own newly purchased horse, Brady left the saddle and asked to have the animal ready at dawn.

Back at the hotel, he ate again—this time it was called dinner—then asked the innkeeper for general directions to Posten Cross. Feeling pretty satisfied with all he’d accomplished during his first day in England, he stretched out for his first decent night’s sleep since he embarked in New Orleans.

He figured it would take him three, maybe four, days to reach Jessica.

 

 

FIVE DAYS LATER, HE CLIMBED THE STEPS TO THE SHEEP’S Head Inn in Posten Cross, so tired he was staggering. He had ridden through half of England, suffered the worst food he’d ever put in his mouth, and slept on beds that were at best a foot too narrow and two feet too short, but he was finally here. His plan was a bath, a nap, enough food to restore his stamina, then Jessica.

Dropping his saddlebags beside the door, he approached the skinny, thin-necked innkeeper studying him through narrowed eyes from behind the plank counter. “I need a room and a stall. One night. Maybe more.”

The man’s nostrils quivered.

“And a bath,” Brady added.

Pressing his lips in a disapproving line, the innkeeper studied the registry book. “And which will you be taking, sir? The stall or the room?”

Brady looked at him.

The condescending smirk became a fawning simper. “The room. Of course. I shall have the bath sent up straightaway.” Slapping a key onto the counter, he directed Brady to their “loveliest top-floor room with magnificent views of the Cheviot Hills,” then hastily stepped back, as if he expected Brady to reach over the counter and do something unmannerly or even violent, which was pretty perceptive, Brady thought.