Pieces of Sky (26 page)

Paco didn’t answer. But that look was back in his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Needing to keep his hands busy, Brady slipped the rope through his fingers, working it into even, precise loops as he spoke. “I know it was you and Sancho. Elena told me some of it. You tell me the rest.”

Paco let out a long, shaky breath. “It was Sancho’s idea to drag him. Not mine.”

“But you helped, didn’t you, Paco? Everything. From the beginning.”

“We watched the rancho,” Paco began in a defeated voice. “We saw you leave and waited for you to come back. It was you we wanted. Instead, we got the kid.”

“His name was Sam,” Brady managed, fighting a sudden pressure in his chest. “Go on.”

“He must have thought we were from the rancho. When he saw us, he pulled up to wait.” Paco sneered. “You should have taught him better,
cabrón
.”

Brady worked the rope and concentrated on his breathing. “Then what?”

“We stripped him and beat him.”

In his mind, Sam screamed.
Help me, Bray. Make it stop.

“And then Sancho got out his knife.”

Brady forced himself to listen, neither moving nor speaking throughout the grisly recital. It was important that he hear this, that each horrific detail be imprinted on his mind, so that after Sancho and Paco answered for what they’d done, there would still be someone left on this earth who knew what Sam had suffered.

But every word was a whiplash across his soul, and listening was the hardest thing he had ever done.

By the time Alvarez had finished, the rough rope was almost embedded in his palms.

Alvarez’s bruised lips curled in a smile. “If you had come back sooner, your little brother would still be alive. Do you think about that, gringo?”

Every day. “Get up.”

Paco struggled upright, his body tense, his gaze scanning the barn.

Brady wished he would try something, anything, that would give him a reason to get his hands around the sonofabitch’s throat.

Alvarez’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Bracing one hand against the post, he spit blood then straightened. “So now you kill me?”

“Now you choose. The bucket, or this.” He tossed the rope at Pa-co’s feet.

Don’t do this,
a voice whispered through his mind. But Brady blocked it. “You know how to tie a noose, don’t you?”

Paco’s face paled. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Brady knew Alvarez was Catholic and believed suicide was an unforgivable sin. He knew Paco would try to buy his way into purgatory, to make his deal with God. But not today. Not ever. Suicide was the fast road to hell, and Brady was determined that Paco Alvarez make the trip. He wanted this man to die without hope of salvation, to burn forever at Satan’s side. Just like him.

“Do it, Paco. Or I’ll take the next two days and a rusty axe to convince you.”

Paco made a choking sound. His mouth fell open. “
Por Dios
.”

“Pick up the rope.”

Brady watched, detached, thinking it an odd thing to see a man die while he was still alive. It began in the eyes—a faint dimming, like a lantern slowly going out. Then the body seemed to shrink into itself, as if the spirit had already flown. And finally all that was left was a trembling shell with the resigned, numb look of a steer in the slaughter line. Seeing it happen to Paco Alvarez filled Brady with a cold and bitter satisfaction.

Weeping openly, Alvarez picked up the rope.

Brady stayed through to the end. After the last twitch and gurgle, he leaned over, vomited into the straw, and left the barn. He told the men waiting outside to cut Paco down and load him in the buckboard, then he walked to the house. He felt like he was moving in a dream, his body going through the motions, but his mind left somewhere behind.

You’ll pay for this,
that voice warned.

But Brady knew he was already doomed. He had moved beyond redemption that morning on the desert with Sam over a decade ago, and even though his actions, both then and now, damned him for all time, he knew he would do it again.

As he mounted the porch steps, Jessica came out the door. She saw Alvarez’s body being loaded into the wagon, then stared in such horror at the bloody stains on Brady’s shirt, he felt compelled to explain it was from castrating—the calves, not Alvarez—although he was sorry he hadn’t considered it—for Alvarez, not the calves. That sent her scurrying.

After grabbing clean clothes, he went to the creek. He scoured with river sand until his palms stung, but still couldn’t wash away all of the taint of death. Finally he dressed and headed back for the jug.

Jack met him by the corrals. “When are we going after Sancho?”

Brady hadn’t thought that far, hadn’t thought beyond anything except what Alvarez had told him in the barn. Dragging a hand through his damp hair, he tried to focus. “First light. We’ll take enough men to cover the ridge above the cave, as well as the canyon below. That sonofabitch isn’t getting past us this time.” He continued toward the house.

Jack fell in beside him. “You did what you had to.”

That startled Brady. Then he realized Jack was talking about Alvarez, not Sam. It wedged a space between them, that withheld knowledge, and it made him feel tenfold the burden that came with it. “It was his doing.” To forestall more questions, he added, “Have Alvarez dumped at the boundary line. Send someone to tell Rikker he can take him to Val Rosa or let him rot. I’ll burn the bastard before I let him rest in Wilkins land. Does Elena know?”

“I’ll have Hank—”

“You tell her.”

“But—”

Brady rounded on him. “Christ, can’t you for once do what I ask?” He regretted the outburst as soon as he heard his words. He felt flayed and ragged, and for one brief moment his resentment was so strong he wanted to get on his horse and ride away and never look back. But he couldn’t do that. This was the work he was required to do. And he’d do it because that was the way it was.

“Jack, I can’t deal with this right now,” he said by way of apology. “She’ll take it better from you.”

Some of the anger faded from Jack’s eyes. “I’ll tell her.”

Dinner came and went while he slumped in the rocker, trying to drink the rage away. Unfortunately the whiskey only made the fires inside burn hotter. Elena came out and tried to get him to eat, but he waved her away. After a while she gave up and went inside.

The sun set and the moon rose, a fat crescent with a dusty reddish cast. He drifted from disheartened, to morose, to downright savage. Even Bullshot stayed away. Hearing what Sam had suffered had sent his mind in a downward spiral. He couldn’t think past it, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to drink past it either. Even after all these years, his little brother’s death was still a bleeding wound in his mind.

Red and Tobias returned to report the riders that were with Paco got away, cutting a fast trail toward Mexico. After they left, Jack came to say the men would be ready to ride at dawn. He said Elena had taken the news about Paco well, although she seemed more concerned about Brady than Alvarez. He stood for a minute as if expecting something—a comment, a reply, an invitation to share the jug—but Brady was too foul tempered to rouse himself. Eventually, he left.

Brady had almost reached a comfortable level of numbness when Her Ladyship came out again, this time armed with a look of determination and a plate of food. He ignored one and declined the other, perhaps more forcefully than he should have, because she slapped the plate onto the floor beside his chair with enough force to send peas bouncing into the roses. Then she yanked the jug out of his hand and sailed it after the peas.

Brady swiveled in the rocker to blink up at her, so astonished he couldn’t find words to express it.

“Are you inebriated?” she demanded.

She made it sound like being drunk was the lowest a man could go. But he knew better. “Hell, no,” he said in indignation.

“Then talk to me.” She stood ready to do battle, feet planted, her round belly almost nudging his shoulder. She was so close he could see the little bump of her navel pushing against the thin fabric of her dress. It weakened him, seeing that bump, and knowing that behind it, life grew, untouched and untainted. He lifted a hand, wanting to lay his palm against it and draw some of that purity from her body into his, and maybe wash away all the ugliness and rage and despair.

But before he could touch her, she moved past to gracelessly lower herself into the rocker beside his. He watched her, feeling the differences between them more keenly than ever, and resenting that they mattered so much. He dropped his hand back to the arm of the rocker.

“Go back into the house, Jessica.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk. Go inside.”

“Tell me what happened in the barn.”

Jesus.
He belched, saw her look of distaste, and belched again. “I gave him a choice. He chose the rope. Good night.”

“You hanged him?”

Gingerly he pressed his fingertips against his throbbing temples to slow the spinning. “I supplied the rope. He did the rest. Please. For chrissakes. Go.”

He realized she had been holding her breath when she let it out in a rush. “Thank goodness. I told Elena you couldn’t do it. I told her you were incapable of killing a man in cold blood.”

Brady lifted his head to stare at her. That she would make such a judgment without knowing anything about it infuriated him. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” His voice rose with every word. “You’ve got no idea what I’m capable of, so shut the hell up!”

Maybe he was drunk after all. He saw her hurt and confusion, and tried to bring himself in check.
Christ.
He felt smothered—by the past, by her, by the weight of his own guilt. In desperation, he reached for the jug, then muttered a curse when he remembered it was gone.

“Stop yelling and tell me.”

“No.”

“It may help.”

“Sonofabitch!” He threw up his hands so abruptly he almost toppled out of the rocker. “Will you just get in the goddamn house?”

“
You
get in the goddamn house!”

He reared back, wondering if he’d heard right. He must have, judging by her owly look. But she stood her ground, damn her, offering no apologies or excuses. “Is this about your brother? About Sam?”

“Aw, Jesus.” The woman could wear down stone.

“Elena told me what happened. That Sancho and her half brother killed him.”

“They didn’t kill him.” As soon as he heard the words, he wanted them back. But it was too late. They were out there for all time, and he could never call them back.

“If they didn’t kill him, who did?”

Oh shit.
Suddenly, he felt like he was losing his balance, being pulled in two directions at once, and he wasn’t sure which way to fall. If he spoke now, what would he accomplish? If he didn’t and continued to lie and deny and pretend everything was okay, no one would ever know.

Whiskey churned in his throat as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. Threading his fingers through his hair, he pressed the heels of his hands against his blurry eyes.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this anymore.

“Brady?”

He felt her watching, felt the press of all her questions, her needs and expectations. And at that moment, more than anything in the world, he wanted to be the man she thought he was—to be sure and honest and worthy.

But how could he, with the past hanging over him like a bloody knife?

He owed them the truth. He owed it to Sam, and in some twisted way he didn’t fully understand, he owed it to himself. But mostly, if he was ever to become the man this woman needed and wanted and expected him to be, he owed it to her.

He let his hands drop. Unable to look at her, he stared down at the planks between his feet. “I did. I killed him.”

He waited for her to get up, walk away, run screaming into the house.

When she didn’t, he straightened and looked over at her to see the effect of his words. Her head was down so he couldn’t see her face, but he sensed her withdrawal. It opened a hole in his chest.
You stupid bastard. You’ve lost it all now.

Wearily he sat back, telling himself it was for the best. They didn’t fit and never would. But he would miss their evenings on the porch, and holding her hand, and stealing kisses in the dark. He would miss the laughter. And her. Tipping his head against the back of the rocker, he closed his eyes and waited for her to leave.

Instead he felt a touch against his wrist. He looked down, realized she was trying to take his hand in hers, but he was gripping the arm of the rocker so tight she couldn’t loosen his fingers. He let go and turned his wrist so her palm fitted against his. He tried not to grip her too hard. He knew his hand shook, knew she felt it, but it was so good to touch her again, and he was so grateful she was still there so he could, he didn’t care.

“Tell me,” she said.

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“Tell me anyway. What happened when you found him?”

“Let it go, Jessica. Please.”

“I can’t.”

In her ferocious need to know, she peeled him like an onion, layer by layer, until all that remained was the hard bitter core of the truth. Somehow he found the words but he used them sparingly. He didn’t want to put images in her mind that would haunt her as surely as they haunted him. So he didn’t tell her how broken Sam was, or the terrible things Sancho had done, or how he couldn’t even touch his little brother without making him scream.

Sam’s cries echoed in his head.
Help me, Bray. Make it stop
.

Swallowing hard, Brady tried to keep his voice steady. “He kept drifting in and out. When he was awake, he screamed. When he wasn’t, I did what I could. It wasn’t much. He was dying, and it would be a long, ugly death.”