Pieces of Sky (13 page)

“No, I do not know!” Fear and distrust put her on the defensive. “You were a military physician. What do you know about babies?”

“Well and enough to know you’re acting like one!”

“Shut up! Both of you! Christ!” Wilkins stomped into the room. “Doc, give us a minute.”

After the muttering Irishman left, Wilkins closed the door, then turned to Jessica.

Ashamed of her outburst, she clasped her hands tightly atop the coverlet. “When I woke up, he was . . . touching me. I didn’t know who he was.”

“Now you do. He’s a good doctor.”

“A good doctor? Or the only doctor?”

“Both. You wouldn’t be alive if not for him. Do what he says and everything will be fine.”

She didn’t see how she could. Idleness was abhorrent to her. “I will go insane,” she said flatly. “I won’t last a week in this bed, much less three months.” In her zeal to convince him the whole notion was wrong—it had to be—she wasn’t truly in danger of losing her baby, was she?—words came tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I simply need to get to Socorro. Once I find my brother, I will see a real doctor and do whatever—”

“Find him? You don’t know for sure he’s there?”

“Of course he’s there. His last letter—”

“Christ.”

“Besides,” she ground out, ignoring his reprehensible language and determined to find a way past this impossible restriction. “It would be an imposition to stay here.” She waved a hand at the boots, leathers, male paraphernalia decorating the cluttered room. “Un-chaperoned, an object of charity for months on end. It simply would not be proper.”

“Proper!” Brady Wilkins came across the room in two long, limping strides. She shrank against the headboard as he bent over the bed, leveling his face inches from her own. “Hell, woman! You’ve poked me, clawed my arm bloody, damned near loosened a tooth, and I may have permanently crippled myself going for help on your behalf! You’re already a damn imposition!”

She gaped up at him, saw his righteous indignation, and resistance died. Strength left her. Defeated and overwhelmed, she did what she swore no man would ever make her do again—she dropped her head into her hands and wept.

“Aw, hell.”

Dimly she heard movement, voices, a door opening and closing. Then the bed sagged as someone sat beside her. She hoped it was the doctor. If she was going to shame herself with this maudlin behavior, she would prefer that he, rather than Brady Wilkins, be witness to it. Yet she wasn’t surprised when she peeked through her fingers to find that very man studying her.

“Go away,” she mumbled, humiliated by her own weakness. She, who never cried, lay sprawled in some strange man’s bed, sniveling like a puling babe. It was disgusting.

“Then quit crying. Here.” He stuffed a wad of cloth into her hand.

His utter lack of sympathy actually helped. After she mopped up with what appeared to be a faded man’s neckerchief, she fluffed the pillow, carefully arranged the counterpane so that it covered her from toe to chin, then leaned back against the headboard and waited for him to leave.

Which, of course, he didn’t.

Uneasy under his intense gaze, and unable to find a plausible excuse for her mawkish display, she ignored it altogether. “Will you truly be crippled?”

One corner of his mustache quirked up. “A slight exaggeration.” He waved a big hand in a vague gesture that seemed to encompass herself, the damp kerchief in her hand, the world in general. “Are you done now?”

Condescending dolt
. “If you are referring to my regrettable bout of self-pity, then yes, I am quite done.” She dabbed one last time at her puffy eyes then, with utmost care, folded the cloth and placed it on the bedside table. “Thank you so much for asking.”

He missed her sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “Will you do what Doc says?”

Three months. Heaven help her. She would be an eggplant ripe for the vegetable bin after a single week. But if the doctor felt that would keep her baby safe, she would manage. Without Victoria, she would have little reason to go on. What would be the meaning of it? “Of course.”

“Good.” Wilkins rose. He hitched up trousers dangerously close to slipping off his lean hips, then with the smug look of a man convinced he had efficiently handled yet another crisis involving an unbalanced female, he said, “We’ll think of something to keep you busy. Maybe mending. How does that sound?”

“Titillating. You will wash the items first?” She gave his rumpled attire a pointed look.

He ignored that, too, and opening the door, yelled for Doc.

Dr. O’Grady had one simple rule: She was not allowed on her feet for any reason whatsoever for at least two weeks. Other than a daily sponging, she was forbidden to bathe and must take all her meals in bed. When he returned in a fortnight to check on her,
if
she showed improvement, she
might
be allowed to sit in a chair for short periods of time. She absolutely would not be traveling by carriage, coach, horse, or foot to Socorro until after her confinement. In fact, she couldn’t even walk as far as the indoor water closet. In other words, for the next three months she was a virtual prisoner in Mr. Wilkins’s home—in his room, in fact.

Meanwhile, Consuelo would handle the nursing chores and see to Jessica’s needs. Doc thought they would get along just dandy.

The absolute fifth ring of hell.

Seven

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS JESSICA SLEPT, ROUSING ONLY TO EAT, swallow copious amounts of water, and use the chamber pot. Thankfully only Consuelo was witness to her complete helplessness. The woman’s giving spirit made the intolerable tolerable, but since she spoke such limited English, she did little to ease the feeling of isolation that seemed to build with each day.

By midweek, Jessica felt rested enough to count the blisters that had crusted across her nose and forehead from overexposure to the sun. Such had never been a problem at home, where the sun only occasionally came out of the mist, and when it did, ladies always wore hats. But who would confuse her with a lady? With her tangled hair, spotty complexion, and swollen temple, she looked as if she might be quite at home swinging with Esmeralda from the bell tower ropes of Notre Dame de Paris.

“You up?” Brady Wilkins stuck his head in the door.

“No.”

He entered anyway. Under his arm was a parcel. “The stage office found this at the wreck. Is it yours?” Removing the burlap wrapping, he held it out.

Jessica bolted upright. “You found it!” Taking it reverently from his hands, she opened the latch with trembling fingers, fearing what she might find.

Nestled in a bed of straw were two saucers and two fluted china cups, each decorated with tiny rosebuds and twining ivy. Not a single crack or chip. Even the seal on the caddy of India tea was unbroken.

Tears burned in her eyes. “Great-Grandmother’s china. I thought it was lost.”

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

Blinking hard, she gave him a weak smile. “I might.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

As he disappeared out the door, she called after him. “Would you ask Consuelo to bring hot water when she has a moment?”

He muttered something she didn’t catch.

Great-Grandmother’s china
. Smiling and crying at the same time, she ran her palms over the worn wooden box. This was her link to home. To the women who had gone before her, and to all she had left behind. It was like having a part of her soul back.

“Thank you,” she yelled, finally remembering her manners. Then she laughed out loud when she realized how ludicrous that was. What manners? Yelling from room to room, receiving men in her bedroom while she lay abed in a state of undress—Annie would faint to see her now.

 

 

DURING ONE OF HER MANY NAPS, SOMEONE—DOUBTLESS CONSUELO—removed Brady Wilkins’s belongings and replaced them with her own. It was a comfort to see her own brush on the bureau, her small tintype of Annie and the children on her night table, and her own clothing on the peg behind the door.

It was a busy household, echoing with the sounds of Consuelo’s musical chatter, deep masculine voices, heavy footfalls, and frequently, a distant tinkling bell. She knew that outside her window was a porch. And a very vocal dog. Consuelo pinned a blanket drape over the window opening, which gave some privacy but didn’t muffle sound.

Jessica soon realized the porch was a gathering place. She often heard men’s voices out there and every now and then a woman’s soft laugh—not Consuelo’s. And sometimes, long after the house had settled for the night, she heard a slow rhythmic creak as if someone rocked in a swing or a rocking chair not far from her window. It was a comforting sound and reminded her of evenings at home when Mama sat in her rocker by the fire, working on a bit of mending or reading aloud from one of the few letters Papa sent during his long absences.

Intuition told her it was Brady Wilkins out there. She could feel his presence, that faint but unmistakable change in the air whenever he was near. It mystified and intrigued her, and when she awoke sweating and terrified from dreams of John Crawford, it comforted her.

As her strength returned, her sense of isolation increased. Other than a brief trip to dump an armful of mending on her bed, Brady Wilkins kept his distance. Luckily Melanie managed to escape her mother’s demands and made frequent visits and even brought some of her dime novels for Jessica to read. The girl was in a dither of excitement. Not only was she living out one of her True West Adventures, complete with lurking desperadoes, lusty ranch hands, and a damsel—namely herself—in distress, but she had also developed
entendres
for all three Wilkins brothers. At the moment, the middle brother, Hank, held a slight lead in her affections.

“Today I am having a bath,” Jessica announced on the twelfth day of her confinement when Consuelo brought in hot water for her morning tea.

Apparently Consuelo understood English better than she spoke it, because she deduced immediately what Jessica wanted and launched into a garbled explanation of why she couldn’t have it. From what Jessica could discern, there was no hipbath on the lower floor and all the washtubs were currently being used to dip calves infested with ticks and lice. But surely she’d heard wrong.

She finally had to settle for a bed bath and an oatmeal dusting for her hair. Not much, but some improvement, and just in time, for that afternoon the Wilkins brothers descended.

She had just finished plaiting her hair into a thick braid when she heard an ominous tromping in the hall. A loud warning knock, then the door swung open to reveal three huge figures crowding the hallway. Forefront was Brady Wilkins. He leaned in, gave her a quick once-over, then motioned the others forward. “She’s dressed.”

“Damn,” a voice muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

She snatched the covers to her chin as Brady Wilkins stepped inside followed by the other two men. “These are my brothers.” He nodded toward a young, sandy-haired man nearly as tall as himself but leaner, and another who was one of the largest men Jessica had ever seen, and possibly the hairiest, his features nearly hidden beneath a mop of dark brown hair and an untrimmed beard.

She forced a smile. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

The younger brother stepped forward, whipped off his hat, and bowed with a flourish. “Andrew Jackson Wilkins, the pick of the litter, ma’am, and pleased to meet you, too.” He elbowed the giant in the stomach. “This here’s Patrick Henry Wilkins—Hank. I’d ask him to make his bows, but with all that hair I’m not sure which way he’s facing, and I wouldn’t want him to do something unmannerly or improper. Brady said you had a keen interest in such things. He also said you’d been having a hard time of it, but it’s clear he was lying and hoping to keep you all to himself, because if I may say so, ma’am, you’re looking as pretty as a speckled pup. By the way, you can call me Jack. And as often as you’d like.” He gave her a wink.

Brady Wilkins rolled his eyes.

Hank Wilkins muttered something and left the room.

Jack Wilkins watched him go, then turned back to Jessica with a grin that was almost as arresting as that of his older brother. “He means well, our Hank. Not much of a talker, though. At least to humans.” He started toward the chair.

Brady yanked him back. “She needs her rest.”

With a see-what-I-mean look to Jessica, Jack headed out the door. As he passed his older brother, she heard him mutter, “You’re right. She does talk funny. Nice pair, though.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but judging by the flush inching up Brady Wilkins’s neck, it was obviously something untoward. Dimples
and
blushes. Amazing.

He stepped into the hall, stopped, and swung back. “Do you want me to have Sheriff Rikker contact the sheriff in Socorro? See if he knows anything about your brother?”

“Would you?”

“What’s his name?