Pieces of Sky (36 page)

“For what? A siege?”

“Do you want us to go with you, or not?”

He picked up the bag.

 

 

FROM HIS PERCH ON THE RIDGE, SANCHO WATCHED THE RANCHO. He had been so long without sleep, his eyes felt raw. He should not have to do all this watching and waiting by himself. Paco should have been here. And those men at the cantina should have come with him instead of laughing at him. Now they were laughing with Paco in hell, and he was up here all alone.

Ducking back into the shade of the overhang, he squatted against the rocky wall and crossed his arms atop his knees. How long had he been here? Two days? Three? Long enough to learn well the routine of the rancho. He knew when the patrols left and when they returned. He knew there were always guards at the house, that riders never went out alone, that Elena, that
puta
, had moved into the house. Probably selling her favors to any vaquero with the coin to pay. Just like their whore of a mother.

He spit into the dirt. “
¡Pinche puta!
”

Fury pounded through him for a moment, then seeped away, leaving the scent of roses drifting like a soft mist through his mind. He closed his eyes and let his head drop down onto his crossed arms.

He was so weary. Always she was there, whispering in his ear, crying, crying. Why could she not leave him alone and let him sleep?

“
Madre, no me molestes.
”

He began to hum, trying to block her from his thoughts.

Why had she run from him? Even at the end, when he was trying to save her, she ran from him. Why? He was not a monster. Did she not know that? Did she not understand it was his duty as her son to keep her safe from Jacob Wilkins?

The wind rose, whining through the overhang like a scolding voice.

“
¡Déjame en paz!
Leave me alone!
¡Vete!
”

The sound of his voice bouncing off the overhang startled him. He jerked his head up, heart racing. He heard a dog bark—distant, but still near enough to break the hold of the past.

Crawling to the edge, he stretched on his stomach and looked down.

A man and woman walked past the corrals toward the creek. A dog raced ahead of them. The woman had hair as red as rust and walked without a limp, so he knew she was not Elena. The man was tall. Sancho chewed at his mustache, wondering which brother he was. From a distance they all looked the same. If he could see his face, he would know. How could he not recognize those eyes that had haunted his nightmares for twenty years?

He crawled back into the shadows. Soon he would have those cold blue eyes on a string around his neck. He would take his tongue next. Then he would move slowly down with a cut here and a slice there, being careful to keep Wilkins alive and aware of all that was happening to him. After he cut off his cojones and sliced through his hamstrings, he would move back up and start on the fingers, one by one, joint by joint. He wanted it to take a long time. He wanted Brady Wilkins to die screaming in agony.

First Elena, then Wilkins. The thought of it made his cock rise.

Sancho rolled onto his back and rubbed a hand over his crotch, picturing Elena in his mind. He wondered if before he killed her, he should use her like the whore she had become. Would she scream and fight? Would she beg him to let her live?

An idea came to him that made him smile. Why wait? He could take her now. He knew in the evenings the younger brothers often joined the vaqueros in the bunkhouse, where they drank and gambled. If the man with the woman was Brady Wilkins, Elena would be alone at the house. He could kill her right under their noses. Or he could bring her back to the cave, and use her until he tired of her.

Sancho rubbed harder as pictures formed in his mind.

His sister, crying and twisting beneath him, her mouth open in mindless terror.

Yes. He would like that. His eyes drifted closed. He would like doing that again and again. Perhaps tonight.

 

 

“WHAT A LOVELY SPOT.”

Jessica smiled in delight at the clear pool of water ringed by large tumbled stones and leafy shrubs, separated from the faster, wider creek by a broad bedrock shelf. Tall cottonwoods crowded the bank, shading the pool from the afternoon heat, while shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves to cast diamond sparkles on the rippling water. There was even another, more secluded pool, set apart from the larger one by a huge boulder decorated with glittering bits of quartz and crude carvings. “What’s this?” she asked, walking closer to study the markings.

“A message rock.” Brady began unpacking the portmanteau. “This was a natural crossing before a spring flood cut a better one downstream. Pilgrims crossing here often left signs for those who followed.” He pulled out the second blanket, muttered something, and continued digging. “Some of the markings go way back. There’s even one dated 1538. Jack figures it was left by a soldier with Coronado, but since the Rio Grande is southwest of here, he must have been lost.” He pulled out Adrian’s stuffed bunny. “You’re determined to make him into a girl, aren’t you?” With a look of disgust, he tossed the toy aside. “I’ll have Iantha make him a horse or something. Don’t you have any soap in here?”

“I do, but I doubt you’d like it.” She walked up the bank toward the trees, looking for a flat grassy place to spread the blankets. “Not manly enough.”

If he caught her jibe, he gave no sign, although he did stop pawing through the bag.

She found a soft shady spot and spread a small blanket for Adrian. His last feeding was an hour before they left, so hopefully he would sleep for a while. Once he was settled, she spread out a larger blanket and reached for the food bag Brady had packed, which immediately brought the hound to her side. Shooing him away, she asked Brady if he wanted to eat first or swim.

“Too hungry to wait,” he called over his shoulder as walked to the water’s edge. Squatting on his heels, he splashed water over his face and neck. He made quite a to-do of it, snorting and blowing and flinging water like a child at his bath.

She found it vastly amusing.

Bullshot saw it as a call to play. With a bark of delight, he launched himself.

A moment later Brady lay sprawled facedown in the water, while the hound splashed and frolicked around him, his tail wagging so vigorously water flew in all directions, creating misty rainbows in the streaks of sunlight.

Jessica was so astonished, she laughed out loud.

Cursing roundly, Brady struggled to his feet, wiping water from his eyes with one hand and fighting Bullshot off with the other. By the time he got the hound under control and found his footing, Jessica was hooting with laughter.

“How’s the fishing?” she called, then doubled over again. He looked ridiculous, scowling through the wet hair plastered to his face, bits of moss clinging to his scruffy beard, and his trousers so waterlogged they drooped on his lanky form.

She probably shouldn’t have told him that, though. And once she had, his expression should have alerted her. But she could scarcely see through the tears of laughter, and didn’t register that sinister smirk until he already had the hound by the scruff of the neck and primed for attack.

“Get her,” he ordered, and shoved the hound in her direction.

She put up an energetic defense, but was no match for Bullshot’s exuberant affection. By the time Brady slogged out of the water and pulled the sodden beast off, she was soaked, covered in dog hair and slobber, and stank of wet dog.

“You beast,” she railed, slinging a streamer of drool off her arm.

Brady gave the hound a reassuring pat. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“I was talking to you, you dolt. Look at me. I’m soaking wet.”

“Not so funny now, is it?”

Fool that she was, she tried to send him back into the water by planting both hands flat on his chest and shoving as hard as she could.

Other than the diabolical grin spreading across his face, he didn’t move. “You shouldn’t have done that.” And the next instant he had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and was heading back into the water.

She didn’t go easily or quietly, but was too winded from her bout with Bullshot, and still laughing too hard, to be effective. “Brady, please!” she wailed, pounding on his broad back.

He stopped, water lapping at his thighs. “Please what?”

“Please, put me down. I beg you.”

“Well, if you’re going to beg . . .” And dipping his shoulder, he let her drop.

Brady doubted it was deep enough to drown her, despite the racket she put up, but remembering she said she couldn’t swim, he stayed close in case she got into trouble. When she finally rose out of the water, spitting and flailing, he couldn’t help but notice how her wet dress clung so sweetly to those curves he’d been thinking about so often of late.

Apparently she noticed him noticing. “Stop staring,” she gasped, tugging and jerking on the fabric, but accomplishing little. “How could you do such a thing!”

“Do what?” Jack was right. She did have a nice pair, all perky and puckered and pushing against the thin cloth so that he could almost see—

“Stop that!”

He jerked his eyes away. “Stop what?”

She clasped an arm over her chest. “You’re the most depraved man I ever met!”

He laughed and peeled off his wet shirt. “Then you need to spend more time around Jack.”

“Why bother? You’re just like him. What are you doing?”

“There’s a huge difference between me and Jack.” Wadding the shirt into a ball, he tossed it onto the bank, then sent her a suggestive leer. “His feet aren’t nearly as big.”

She would have been outraged had she not already been in a state of openmouthed shock to be confronted with Brady Wilkins’s unclothed torso. That quick peek at the stage stop should have prepared her. It was no wonder he carried her around so easily. The man was an Adonis . . . all corded muscles and glistening black hair that trailed down his chest to point straight at . . . his belt buckle . . . the very buckle he was loosening right before her eyes.

With a strangled gasp, she whirled, tangled her legs in a floating billow of skirts, and almost lost her footing again. “What are you doing?” she sputtered.

“Going for a swim,” he said, grunting and splashing behind her.

“Not here you’re not! Don’t you dare remove any more of your clothing!”

“Uh-oh.” She heard the slap of wet cloth on rocks. “Too late.” Scandalized, she charged for the shore, slipped, went down, and came up gasping to find him grinning at her, bobbing in water that thankfully covered him to his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” he asked, showing most of his teeth and both dimples in a winsome grin, which might have been more effective had it not been directed at her breasts. “You’re already wet. Might as well stay for a swim.”

“Have you no decency whatsoever? You—you’re naked!”

“Been peeking, have you?”

“Certainly not! Nor will I cavort about like a licentious lightskirt with a naked man!”

“Licentious lightskirt. You must be rattled if you’re bringing out the fancy words.” The grin became an outright laugh. “Damn, I love the way you talk.”

She turned for the shore again.

Still laughing, he caught her skirt. “Don’t go. Use the other pool. That way you’ll have privacy, and I can wash without you ogling me the whole time.”

“I was not ogling you!”

“It sure felt like an ogle.”

“It was probably a fish.”

That leer again. “A really big fish.”

Eventually he let her go, but only after she allowed him to talk her into using the other pool, which she had already decided to do anyway. It required trudging about in wet shoes and clingy clothes, gathering soap, dry clothing, and toweling, then picking her way over the rocks to the other pool, all under his amused gaze.

But it was worth it. To be able to wash her hair and rinse away the dirt of the garden, while submerging her entire body in cool clear water, was heavenly—even though for propriety’s sake, she kept on her underthings and one petticoat. She enjoyed it so much she might have stayed in for the rest of the afternoon had she not known Brady Wilkins lurked nearby.

By the time she dried and dressed, she could hear Adrian waking for his late-afternoon feeding and her own stomach rumbled with hunger. As she worked her way back to where she had left the blankets and food bag, she realized how changed her life had become. Allowing scandalous liberties, bathing in public wearing nothing but her unmentionables, swimming with a naked man. Heavens, she hadn’t worn a hat or corset in months. It was unbelievable.

And unbelievably liberating.

She almost laughed out loud at the pure joy of it—then abruptly froze when she stepped into the shady glade and saw Brady—fully dressed, thank goodness—sprawled on his stomach, asleep, with Bullshot twitching in dreams on one side, and Adrian practicing infant calisthenics on the other. She didn’t know why the sight so captivated her, or why that familiar yearning struck her with such force her chest ached. But she was certain that the image of the three of them, sharing a blanket by the river’s edge on a lazy summer’s day, would remain etched in her mind and her heart for all the years to come.

It was so beautiful, so perfect.

She drank it in, memorizing all the small details so she would never forget. The way Brady’s absurdly long eyelashes made a dark crescent on his sun-browned cheek. The sheen of damp hair tumbling over his brow. The strength of the big hand that lay cupped so protectively around Adrian’s tiny head.

A sense of belonging gripped her, a feeling of connection even stronger than she had felt before, and so poignant it brought tears to her eyes. She wished this moment could last forever. She wished she were unafraid. She wished she had the courage to reach out and run her hands over that long solid body.