Pieces of Sky (5 page)

His head swung toward Phelps. His expression held such deadly intent it lifted the hairs on Jessica’s nape. “I won’t bury another brother, Oran. This time I’ll kill the bastard and I don’t care who gets in my way. Tell that to your Marshal.”

 

 

CHRIST!
HOW COULD THEY LET THE BASTARD OUT?

Brady charged toward the corrals, driven by emotions he hadn’t felt in a decade—fear that he’d be burying Hank or Jack next—rage that everything he’d worked for could still be lost—guilt that he hadn’t ended this ten years ago when he’d had the chance. But mostly, churning inside hot and bitter as bile, there was hate, not just for Ramirez but also for the man who had set all these events in motion over two decades ago—his own father, Jacob.

A kaleidoscope of images spun through his mind. The cabin, fire, his father silhouetted by flames, his head thrown back in a howl of despair.

Fury swirled through him, aimless and impotent, leaving Brady shaking and wet with sweat. Breathing hard, he gripped the top rail of the corral and waited for reason to return.

He’d end this damn feud and this time he wouldn’t let the truth get in his way. He’d kill Sancho Ramirez and end it once and for all.

 

 

JESSICA STEPPED FROM THE CABIN INTO A BREEZE THAT FELT like a gasp from hell. Squinting against sunlight so stark it robbed the world of color, she looked around.

The other passengers stood at the open door of the coach, arguing with Bodine, who sat inside. Cook was leading two horses from the corrals. No sign of Wilkins.

Relieved, she descended the steps and went in search of Phelps. She found him at the front of the coach, hitching the new teams. “Might I ask a favor, sir?”

He threaded the reins through the harness rings then checked the girth buckle. “Such as?” As he straightened, his gaze moved past her to a point beyond her shoulder.

Sensing a looming presence, she whirled. For one insane moment she expected to see John Crawford leering down at her, which was absurd, since he was half a world away and had no idea where she was.

Instead, it was Wilkins behind her, a saddle in one hand, a rope-strung bundle in the other.

She lurched back. “W-What are you doing?” she almost shrieked. Perhaps she shrieked it after all, judging by his startled expression. He stepped back, as if to distance himself before she did something even more shocking, like speaking in tongues or bolting giggling through the cactus. Clearly he thought her deranged. Perhaps she was.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a person,” she accused in a shaky voice.

“I don’t sneak.”

Of course he didn’t. A man his size couldn’t sneak up on a fence post, especially carrying all that paraphernalia. She was definitely deranged.

While the two men discussed where to stow Wilkins’s gear, she struggled to calm her breathing, infuriated that she had allowed emotion to overcome reason. Again. Why, after three months and thousands of miles, was Crawford still in her head, ready to pounce? Would she never be rid of him?

By the time Phelps had climbed topside to load Wilkins’s belongings, she had regained a measure of control. Stepping around Brady Wilkins, she moved along the off side of the coach. “While you’re up there, Mr. Phelps, would you please retrieve my bandbox?” Rising on tiptoe, she tapped a half-buried hatbox with the tip of her parasol. “That one, please.” Stepping back, she hooked the parasol over her forearm and straightened her cape. “I would be most grateful.”

“Aw, hell,” Phelps muttered. “Can’t it wait?”

“I regret it cannot.”

“It’ll take me an hour to unpack and repack.”

“Surely not.”

“Aw, hell.”

With Wilkins’s help, it took less than five minutes. Gratified to have the ordeal over and anxious to get out of the sun, she pulled two Indian head coppers from her reticule. She handed one to the driver. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Phelps.”

He stared blankly at the coin in his palm. “What’s this?”

“A token of my appreciation.” Steeling herself, she turned to Wilkins. “And thank you for your help as well.” She extended the second coin.

His big hands started up.

She almost flinched but caught herself. She even managed to keep her hand steady.

But instead of accepting the coin, he folded his arms across his chest. “No.”

“You won’t accept my offering?”

“No.”

She had no response to such blatant rudeness. Nor was she inclined to stand bareheaded in this lung-searing heat and allow herself to be drawn into some tiresome game of insistence-and-refusal. Irritation overcoming fear, she grabbed Wilkins’s hand and slapped the coin onto his callused palm. “Accept it with my gratitude. I insist.”

His magnificent eyes narrowed.

But before he could voice objections, she snatched up the hatbox and marched around to the door of the coach.
Men. Rot them all.

The other passengers had already taken their seats—except for Bodine, who stomped angrily toward the front of the coach. Apparently his digestive indiscretions had resulted in his banishment to the driver’s box. Relieved, she climbed aboard.

Even with Bodine gone, the air was ghastly. Breathing through her mouth, she removed from the bandbox a simple straw bonnet with lilac rosettes and a white silk scarf. After securing it with a fluffy bow, she set the empty box on the floor as a brace for her feet, then sat back, hoping they would get under way soon and force fresh air into the stifling coach.

That prickle again, like fingertips brushing along her neck. She looked over to see Brady Wilkins in the doorway, frowning at the hatbox. “What the hell is that doing there?”

“I put it there.” Mindful of the other passengers, she leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Can you possibly speak three sentences without cursing?”

“Where am I supposed to put my feet?”

“In a stable, perhaps?” She sat back, and meeting his glare with a gracious smile, she added, “However, if the hatbox is such a bother, I am sure the others will be delighted to wait in this stultifying heat while you and Mr. Phelps—”

“What’s in it?”

“At the moment, nothing, but—”

He yanked the box from beneath her feet and threw it out the door. Then before she could muster a thought, the coach rocked as he climbed aboard.

“Watch where you step.” Maude jerked her skirts aside as he rooted around, knees and elbows wreaking havoc in the confined space. Finally he plopped down beside Ashford and across from Jessica, his spread knees imprisoning her skirts, his big feet taking up most of the floor space. With a deep sigh, he tipped his head back, his hat forward, and closed his eyes. By the time the coach hit its rhythm, he was snoring. It was quite a bit longer before Jessica could relax enough to unclasp her hands and take a full breath.

Brady Wilkins was nothing like Mr. Bodine. He was much, much worse.

As her nerves settled, exhaustion set in. She tried to doze, but the swaying of the coach and the movements of the baby upset her stomach, so she gave up.

The baby. She.
Victoria
. It fit.

Smiling, Jessica closed her eyes and traced her fingertips over her abdomen. Was it larger than yesterday? Flattening her palms against her body, she shaped the roundness. Definitely bigger. Firmer. Despite the concealing cape and being long in the waist, she wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer.

“You still don’t have it right.”

Her eyes flew open.

Brady Wilkins watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His gaze dropped to the fingers splayed across her abdomen.

She yanked her hands away, heat rushing into her face. Had he guessed her condition? Judging by his speculative look, he had.

“I didn’t curse. This time I used profanity.”

The words were slow to penetrate. When they did, she stiffened. Hoping to discourage further conversation, she looked away, wondering why she had ever said anything in the first place.

“Cursing would be like ‘sonofabi—’ ”

“Don’t.” She whipped her head around. “Not another word.”

“Just figured before you go correcting people, you ought to get it right.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He raised his brows.

She gave up. Sometimes maintaining proper decorum was simply too difficult. With a weary sigh, she sank against the backrest. “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”

“I admit I am.” His mustache quirked up at the corners. “You make it so easy.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, fearing that would only encourage him. How tedious she had become—spouting quotes from her pamphlets, dressing down strangers—she could scarcely stand her own company; no wonder he found her so ridiculous. “I’m delighted to be able to entertain you,” she said dryly.

“I’m delighted to be entertained.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “And by the way . . .” He leaned forward, an odd glint in those aqua eyes. In his fingers he held a copper coin.

She tried to draw back, couldn’t, and in mute helplessness watched him take her hand in his and gently pry open her clenched fist. With great care he placed the coin into her gloved palm. “I don’t take money from women. No matter how grateful they are.”

She forgot how to breathe. How to think, or move. He was so near she could smell sweat, horses, old smoke. She could see gray sprinkles in the dark stubble of his beard, a pale scar running through one dark eyebrow, a bruise forming under the new cut on his cheek. And at that moment, as she stared into the bright intensity of those startling eyes, she realized how badly she had underestimated this man.

And to prove it, he did the most extraordinary thing.

He smiled.

Just that.

Yet it changed his entire face. The whiteness of such lovely teeth against his black mustache and sun-browned skin was contrast enough, but the transformation from scowl to rakish grin was astonishing. Boggling.

Releasing her hand, he sat back, pulled his hat over his forehead, and closed his eyes.

She let out air in a rush, only then realizing she had been holding it. Blasphemy with a dimpled smile—threats spoken in a velvet voice—eyes that changed color with his mood. Was anything about Brady Wilkins what it seemed?

She repressed a shiver of . . . something. Thank heavens he was riding only as far as Val Rosa. In a few more hours, she would be rid of him altogether.

As the afternoon wore on, heat built. Even with the shade down, dust kicked up by the horses sifted through every crack to settle in the damp creases of Jessica’s neck and wrists, turning perspiration into mud. Her throat was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

The road grew steeper, tilting the coach and pinning her against the backrest. Wilkins, riding backward against the slant, slouched lower and lower as he napped, his long legs flopping against her skirts with every bump, those oversized feet taking up most of the narrow aisle. She wondered what he would do if she stomped one but lacked the courage to find out.

The coach slowed to a crawl. Above the rattle of wheels, she heard Phelps urging the horses on. Lifting the shade, she saw that the ground beyond her window dropped sharply away in a long, rock-strewn slope that ended in a treeless canyon far below.

“Will you be stopping in Val Rosa, Mrs. Thornton?”

Letting the shade drop, she turned to Mr. Ashford. As she did, she saw that although he hadn’t moved, Wilkins was awake and watching her. “No, I shall be continuing on to Socorro.”

“Perhaps that’s where I’ve seen you,” Ashford continued. “Although I’m sure we’ve never met, you seem familiar. Have you been there before?”

Before she could answer, Maude leaned forward to peer past Melanie. “Socorro is Indian country. Dreadful place. Is that where your husband is, Mrs. Thornton?”

Jessica looked down at her hands. “No. My brother. My husband is dead.”

“A pity. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She did mind, but knew if she didn’t answer, it would only invite vulgar speculation. “A hunting accident.” That seemed the simplest. Less complicated than disease or drowning, and certainly less dramatic than murder. Or being bitten by a rattlesnake, or one of those giant Gila monster lizards. Or being scalped by natives, or burned to death in a stagecoach. The West offered so many options.

“He was shot? Oh, how tragic.” Leave it to Melanie to dramatize the simple.

Jessica smoothed a pleat on her skirt. “Not shot . . . precisely. He was on his way home and fell.” It sounded weak, even to her own ear. She was such a wretched liar.

Ashford joined the interrogation. “Fell, how?”

She cleared her throat. “Actually, it was his horse that fell. Slipped. On ice. It was snowing, you see, and when he jumped a hedgerow, he fell and hit his head. My husband, not the horse. Although the horse fell, too, of course.” She knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop herself. She hated lying, hated the reason for the lie, hated the way they were all staring at her. Even Wilkins. Especially Wilkins, with his knowing little smirk.

“What was he hunting?” Ashford asked.

Mercy’s sake, what difference does it make?
“Grouse, I think.”

“In winter?” Maude frowned. “Surely he wasn’t poaching?”

“Certainly not. My husband would never do anything unlawful.” Now she was defending a man who never existed; her perversity knew no bounds. “It was August, I think. Perhaps September. I try not to think about it.”

“Odd time to snow,” Maude muttered as she sat back.

Too late Jessica realized her mistake. If her husband had died eight months ago, she should be much further along in her confinement. Unless the baby wasn’t her husband’s.
Blast
. If she was to continue this fabrication, she really must perfect her lying. Luckily no one knew she was pregnant or that her timing was off.