Pieces of Sky (20 page)

“Brady went after Sancho, determined to end it. He found him and Paco wandering in a canyon not far from the burned cabin.” A bitter note edged Elena’s voice. “I know it is wrong and I ask God’s forgiveness, but I wish he had killed them then. I ask him why he did not, but he will not speak of that night. Not with me. Not even with his brothers. And now the killing begins again.”

Jessica was so numbed by Elena’s horrible revelations she simply sat there, unable to fathom the heartache these two families had inflicted upon one another.

She thought again of Brady’s words at the stage stop. She hadn’t understood then but she did now. This time he would die before he’d bury another brother.

Oh, Brady,
she thought sadly.
You work so hard to watch over everyone else—but who watches over you?

Ten

THE MEN SLUMPED IN THEIR SADDLES, HOLLOW-EYED AND spent. Paco didn’t wonder that they’d soured—Rawlins dead, Haskins with a bullet through his leg, and Crocker nursing a twisted ankle. Sancho was there in body only. Luckily the rain had washed out their tracks. Paco had made them backtrack a couple of times just to be safe, but if he hadn’t found that back trail over the ridge, they might all be roasting with Rawlins right now.

Not that Sancho cared. He seemed oblivious to the looks sent in his direction and the way the men muttered behind his back. Paco didn’t blame them. He had doubts of his own.

When they reached the canyon, Paco left Crocker to tend Haskins and followed Sancho up the slope to the cave. Once inside the entrance, he collected twigs and brush for a fire while Sancho sat against the wall, watching in silence. It made Paco uneasy. He knew Sancho was stewing because the rain had doused the forest fire. He just didn’t know what his half brother would do about it. Set more fires? Slaughter cattle? Go on a killing rampage like he had ten years ago?

His unpredictability was more frightening than the man himself.

After building a small fire behind the boulders where it couldn’t be seen, Paco got out the tin of coffee. Once it boiled, he filled a cup, topped it off with whiskey, then passed it to Sancho.

They drank in silence. Mist beaded on the rocky walls, trickled down to form puddles on the sandstone floor. The chill dampness settled into Paco’s bones, but Sancho seemed unaffected and continued staring out at the rain, absently working at his mustache with his bottom teeth. When the fire was down to steaming coals, he finally spoke. “That man in the canyon. It is his son?”

Paco pulled his poncho up to cover the back of his neck. “The oldest. Brady.”

“I remember. The one with Jacob’s eyes. I will enjoy killing him.”

Sancho seemed calm. Hoping the worst was over, Paco tossed more twigs on the fire. With a hiss they caught, sending a coil of smoke up into the shadows overhead.

“Do you hear her,
hermano
?” Sancho whispered.

Paco looked over. The flickering firelight distorted Sancho’s face in a way that reminded Paco of things that crawled through his nightmares. Shivering, he looked away. “Hear who?”

“She haunts me, Paco. No matter how many times I kill her, she is still here.” He tapped his forehead. “
En la cabeza. ¿Por qué?
”

Paco clenched his teeth in anger. Always Maria. That was all Sancho thought about.
What about me?
he wanted to shout.
What about our plans to regain the rancho?
Then as suddenly as it came, anger faded. He could not fight her—not in life—not in death. Maria would always win.

“It was not I who shamed our family, Paco. You saw. You were there.”

“I saw.” Wearily, Paco leaned back against the wall, wondering if Haskins and Crocker would stay, or if come morning, it would be just him and Sancho.

“I only do what I must, Paco. What she forces me to do. When she sees him burn, she will know and then she will let me rest.”

Unease crawled up Paco’s neck. “Know what? What are you talking about?”

Sancho smiled. A sudden gust sent sparks flying upward in a spiraling dance. As it swept through the tunnel, it moaned like a woman’s cry.

“Soon, Paco.”

 

 

THE STORM BROKE IN A SUDDEN DELUGE OF HAILSTONES THAT quickly gave way to a hard, driving rain. Jessica loved thunderstorms, loved the smell of spent lightning, the sweet scent of wet grass, that crackle of energy that filled the air. But this was a bit much. Shivering with the abrupt drop in temperature, she retrieved her wool shawl from her room then returned to the porch. Settling into Brady’s rocker, her heels tapping a drumbeat against the plank floor, she rocked and watched the storm and waited for the men to return home.

The escort came first. A half dozen mounted troopers and an ambulance wagon splashed into the yard just as the sky went twilight dark. Hank came out of the barn and spoke to the lead rider, then the man dismounted and began barking orders barely heard over the stomp of horses and jangle of harness. With practiced efficiency, the troopers tied their horses to the corral rails and lashed oilskins over their saddles before ducking into the barn. The lead soldier, boasting two yellow bars sewn across the shoulder of his uniform, detached himself from the others and came to the porch. Snapping to attention and shaking water off his hat, he introduced himself to Jessica as Lieutenant Jarvey, here to escort Mrs. Kinderly and her daughter to Santa Fe.

Jessica directed him to the Kinderlys’ room. As he disappeared into the house, she turned to see more riders coming through the gate.

They rode slowly, heads tucked against the rain, hats pulled low. She studied them as they filed past. Two wore red-stained bandages. Another rode facedown across his saddle. Suddenly wobble-legged, she gripped the porch rail so tightly the rough wood bit into her palms.

A horse carrying two riders stopped at the barn. Hank came out to meet them. They spoke for a moment, then the man in the rear slid down and motioned a soldier forward. The rain drowned out his words, but not his voice.

Despite the tired slump of his shoulders and his sooty face, she recognized Brady’s distinctive drawl. Just hearing it triggered such a swell of emotion, she sank into the rocker, too weak to stand. The depth of her relief shocked her, made her realize how frightened she had been, and how involved her emotions had become.

Dimly she heard all three Wilkins brothers arguing with the trooper. The beleaguered soldier shrugged and pointed toward the house just as the lieutenant came back out the door, staggering under the weight of three bulging valises. As he dumped them by the steps, Brady came forward.

“I need your men,” he said as he came up the stairs. “Two days. Maybe less.” He explained about the fire, and how four men led by Sancho Ramirez had tried to ambush them in the canyon. “We got one of them, but they got two of ours. We need to stop him before someone else dies.”

The lieutenant was reluctant. “If he’s not Indian or Army, we can’t interfere.”

“He tried to burn us out, including the colonel’s wife and daughter.”

“Yes, but—”

“They’re military, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but—”

“Christ, if you can’t make the decision, wire Kinderly. Get his okay.”

Jessica refrained from patting the young officer’s shoulder in sympathy. She knew how intimidating Brady could be—especially with two scowling brothers behind him.

Red-faced and defeated, the officer finally left to wire Colonel Kinderly. Brady told Jack to have Consuelo bring her medicine basket to the bunkhouse, then asked Hank to carry the dead man into the dining room and send someone for Doc and Rikker. Then he turned to Jessica.

Sadness swept her. Beneath a rain-streaked coating of soot and ash, he looked drawn and worn. She sensed a weariness that went deeper than flesh—a weariness of spirit.

“Keeping my rocker dry for me, are you?”

She couldn’t see any sign of injury, but she needed to ask. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

That heady relief again. She tamped it down. “The others . . . the wounded . . . can I—”

“No.”

She blinked, put off by his abrupt refusal. “I can help, Brady. I want to.”

“It doesn’t concern you.” Perhaps he realized how brusque he sounded, or he read the hurt she wasn’t able to hide. Pulling off his hat, he dragged a hand across his forehead, leaving dark streaks across the paler skin. In a gentler tone he said, “I don’t want you pulled into this, Jessica. I don’t want blood on your hands, too.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Keep my rocker warm.” He turned toward the house, then stopped, eyeing the pile of luggage by the door. “Any of this yours?”

“No. It belongs to the Kinderlys.”

“Good.” Opening the door, he went inside.

 

 

AS THE RAIN CONTINUED, THE THICK ADOBE WALLS THAT had kept the heat out now held the chill dampness in. Water seeped under doorways, puddled under windows. As men trooped in and out, the floors grew slippery with mud.

Jessica bustled through the rooms wiping and mopping until Elena insisted she get off her feet. Determined to help, she sat at the kitchen table and assisted Iantha with supper preparations, while Consuelo and Elena tended the wounded in the bunkhouse.

Apparently Iantha was as unimpressed with beans and tortillas as Jessica. Together they cooked up a hearty meal of roasted beef with potatoes and carrots, fresh beets and greens from the hail-battered garden, a mountain of green beans, several loaves of freshly baked bread, and pudding for dessert. Just the smell of it cooking made Jessica’s stomach rumble. It clearly had a similar effect on the Wilkins brothers. By the time the meal was ready, they crowded the doorway, washed and combed, all but smacking their lips in anticipation.

They ate like men on the brink of starvation. But what they lacked in table manners and polite dinner conversation, they made up for in noisome enthusiasm, and Jessica took comfort in that. While they busily gorged themselves, Iantha loaded a tray for Buck and left. Jessica was debating fixing a tray for the Kinderlys when Melanie swept in, looking for the lieutenant.

“Val Rosa,” Brady mumbled through a mouthful of food.

“When will he return? Mama wants to know when we’ll be leaving.”

Brady reached for another slice of bread. “Two days. Maybe three.”

“Two days?” Melanie stared from one brother to the other as if seeking a different answer. When none came, she started twisting her hands. “But Mama—”

Brady waved her off. “If she’s got questions, send her to me.”

Hank gave her a sympathetic look. Melanie met it with a shy smile, then quickly filled two plates and left.

A few minutes later Elena came in, looking tired and worried. As she filled a plate, Jessica noted one of her sleeves showed spatters of blood. Brady asked her something in Spanish. She answered and shook her head. Assuming they were talking about the injured men, Jessica asked Brady how they were.

“Red will be fine. Sanchez is lung shot.”

Jack reached for the platter of roast beef. “Too bad. He was a good hand. Darnell, too. Is there more coffee?”

“I’ll make some.” Jessica rose and went to the stove. Trying to remember how Iantha had made it, she dumped what she hoped was the correct amount of ground beans into the blackened pot, filled it with water, and set it to boil. Satisfied, she returned to the table.

They ate in silence. After finishing her meal, Elena loaded a tray for Consuelo and carried it back to the bunkhouse. Hank spooned more beets and greens onto his plate, Jack took second helpings of everything, and Brady finished what must have been a pound of green beans. Although it gladdened her to see how much they enjoyed the meal, she was astounded at the amount of food these men had already consumed and wondered if there would be enough.

“It’s fortunate you raise your own food,” she murmured as Brady loaded his plate again.

“It’s tasty.” Jack nudged Hank. “I think we ought to keep her, don’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Keep me?”

“Well, you know what they say.” Jack popped a slab of bread into his mouth. “The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Indeed?” She smiled sweetly. “I thought it was through a hole in his chest.”

Jack choked. Hank gave her that assessing look. Brady threw back his head and laughed.

Rain beat a gentle tattoo against the shutters, but in the kitchen the air was warm and cozy, redolent with the smell of cooking, wood smoke, damp men. Despite the dead man resting in the next room, a comfortable, homey feeling crept over her and she sighed, filled with a calm joy.

Brady shot her a curious look.

She met it with a smile, amused at the way his cheeks bunched when he chewed, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

She wanted to tell him how grateful she was to be here, safe and alive. To tell him how worried she had been today, and how glad she was that he had come back unharmed. She wanted to say how sorry she was about Sam, and find out how he had gotten that scar across his eyebrow, and ask him why had he kissed her.