Pieces of Sky (32 page)

He lowered her and her blankets into her rocker, then positioned his beside it and sank down with a deep sigh. “Now isn’t this better?”

She was too busy trying to cover herself with the blanket to answer, and by the time she was satisfied modesty was maintained, he was reaching for her hand. “I’ve missed our evenings out here.” He pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “I’ve missed you.”

“As well you should,” she teased, trying to hide the pleasure his words brought.

They rocked in comfortable silence, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun slipped lower in the western sky. She had missed this, too, she realized. She had missed him. Looking down at the fingers gripping hers, she felt a gentle ache move across her heart. This hand had touched the daughter she never would. A sad, but comforting thought.

After a while, needing to clear the air, she said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t handled all this very well.” She made an offhand gesture with her free hand, then let it fall back into her blanketed lap. “I was distraught.”

He didn’t speak, but she felt that hum of intensity charging the air between them.

“If you hadn’t intervened, I . . . well . . . I suppose I owe you another debt of gratitude.”

“Hell.”

She glanced over.

“It’s not your gratitude I want.” He stopped rocking, forcing her to stop as well. He leaned closer until his shoulder brushed hers and his big body blocked the low sun. “You know that, don’t you?” His lips brushed hers.

“No—I . . .” Words failed her as he kissed a slow, hot trail across her jaw and up her cheek.

His voice was a whispery rush in her ear. “What I want is you under me and open to me, your hair spread around us like liquid fire and your long, coltish legs holding me tight. That’s what I want.”

As the words sank in, she pulled back with a gasp. “What an outrageous thing to say.”

He straightened. “You think it’s too soon?”

“How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“You’re right. We should wait until you’re healed.” He resumed rocking. “When do you think that’ll be?”

If she hadn’t been so shocked, she would have bounded from the rocker. Or called him to accounts. Or blocked the images he had planted in her mind.

But before she could regain the power of speech, he said, “Tomorrow we’ll bring little what’s-his-name out here with us. By the way, what is his name?”

She gaped at him, still so rattled she couldn’t form words.

“You have named him, haven’t you?”

She didn’t know how to respond even if she could. She was ashamed to admit she hadn’t named her son. She was ashamed that she couldn’t get those pictures out of her mind. She was ashamed to be sitting in public in her nightclothes while Brady Wilkins talked about doing . . . that . . . with her. Didn’t he know just the thought of it sent her into mindless panic?

“Hell, it’s been almost a week, Jessica.”

She drew in a ragged breath and tried to think. “Adrian,” she blurted. “Adrian Benjamin Thornton.” As soon as she said it, she knew the name had been in her mind all along.

“Adrian? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“It was my father’s name.” She should leave. She should run as fast as she could from this man.

“Was he a girl? Never mind.” He scratched at his whiskered chin. It sounded like sandpaper on wood. “Benjamin is good. You could name him Benjamin Franklin Thornton.”

Relieved to have a new focus for her rampant imagination, Jessica said, “What is this family’s insistence on naming children after dead American statesmen? Especially when you don’t even use the names you pick.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“
Patrick
Henry Wilkins?
Andrew
Jackson Wilkins? And whom are you named after? Some obscure so-called patriot who threw perfectly good tea into Boston Harbor?”

“Grandpa Brady,” he said proudly. “A black Irishman with a bent toward mischief until he got religion. Poor bastard was struck down by lightning when he was standing in the river baptizing sinners.”

“Well, that explains a great deal.”

He gave her that grin. “It does, doesn’t it? So you see how important it is that the boy has a name to live up to, like I did. And Benjamin Franklin Thornton would be a fine name.”

“He has a fine name. Adrian Benjamin Thornton.” Simply saying it aloud gave her son substance. No longer was he a shadow in the back of her mind. He was her son.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll call him Benjamin.”

“His name is Adrian.”

“Ben, then. Allow him that, at least. The kid’s manhood is at stake.”

“And an overrated thing
that
is,” Jessica said dryly.

They rocked in silence. Jessica watched the wind drive a spiral of dust across the hilltop and whip the branches of the tree into a dancing frenzy. She thought of Victoria resting under that tree throughout the years to come, and she wondered at all the living who had passed by it, and all the dead who would spend eternity beneath it.

“It’s bigger than most, isn’t it?”

His gaze flew to hers. “What is?”

She motioned toward the hilltop. “The other mesquite trees I’ve seen are much smaller. What makes this one so large?”

His mustache twitched. “Water,” he said. “Jacob was convinced its roots had found an underground river. I think it’s more than that.”

“Such as?”

“The Indians call it a ‘Spirit Tree.’ Because of its size and age, they think it has magical powers. Even now we occasionally find small offerings and charms left by the trunk.”

“Do you think it has magical powers?”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I think it has grit. It’s survived drought and cold and fire. It’s outlasted the Spaniards, the Mexicans, the Indians, and someday it’ll outlast us, too. I take comfort in that. I like knowing that whatever mischief we humans get ourselves into, that tree will still be here, watching over those who rest beneath it. It endures. I admire that.”

Jessica studied the tree. As Brady’s words settled in her mind, they brought with them a feeling of peace. Acceptance. The grief would always be there, but it helped knowing that the mesquite tree would be there to shelter Victoria for all the years ahead.

“Rikker sent word.”

It took a moment for the words to make sense. “About George?”

“No.”

And suddenly she knew why he had seemed distracted, and what he had avoided telling her. She stiffened in the chair, bracing herself for the words she had dreaded to hear since the moment she had opened Annie’s letter. “Crawford.”

His grip tightened on her hand. “I don’t want you worrying. Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll take care of it.”

Fear rippled through her. But she couldn’t give in to weakness now. She had a son to protect.

“My offer still holds.”

Kill him?
She looked over, saw the resolve in his eyes, and almost gave in. Then she reminded herself they were talking about her sister’s husband and Adrian’s father. As vile as Crawford was, she didn’t want his death on her conscience. “How long do I have?”

“Two days, maybe less.” He reached out, trailed the fingertips of his free hand down the side of her face, calming her with his touch and his strength. “I won’t let him hurt you, Jessica. You know that, don’t you?”

She laid her hand over his, anchoring his palm against her cheek. “I know.”

A spark ignited behind his eyes that sent an answering heat through her body. “Good.” His teeth showed in a smile that was both triumphant and deadly in intent, then his hand slipped from beneath hers to fall back to his side. “What do you want me to do?”

She thought for a moment. There was only one way to stop Crawford and keep those she loved safe. “Can you get a solicitor to the ranch?”

“If you mean a lawyer, I can have one here by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Excellent.” She smiled, feeling more in control than she had in days. “You get him here and I shall do the rest.”

 

 

THE LAWYER CAME AT PRECISELY ONE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING afternoon, and brought with him his stenographer assistant and a satchel bulging with forms. Brady introduced him as Phineas Higgins. His assistant, who was also his son, was named Horace. Both wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles, but while the elder had the stooped shoulders of a man who had spent most of his life hunched over a desk, the younger would have passed for a stonemason if not for the empty sleeve on his right side. Jessica was moved to pity until she saw the sharply intelligent glint in his kind hazel eyes. She smiled, deciding they would do.

Brady graciously allowed them use of his office, and by the time the forms had been drawn up, checked, and witnessed, it was late afternoon. Jessica instructed them to send copies to her solicitor in England, gave them a letter to post to Annie explaining what she had done, then waved them through the gate. Exhausted, she sank into the rocker, hoping she had done everything she could to protect her family from John Crawford. If she failed and something happened to her, it would be up to Brady. If he agreed.

That night, for the first time since Adrian was born, she took dinner with the brothers and Elena in the kitchen. She had expected it to be somewhat awkward in view of her crisis, but everyone seemed genuinely glad she was recovering, and although solicitous of her health, none made comment about her ordeal.

She was relieved. She was deeply ashamed of her earlier behavior toward her son. She also didn’t want to discuss the daughter she had lost. Victoria was her private pain, and she knew that time, not well-meant words of sympathy, was what she needed now.

Deciding her plan might be better received on full stomachs, she waited until the brothers had taken the edge off their voracious appetites and were settling into their second—or in Hank’s case, third—helpings before she spoke. “I have something to discuss with you, if I might. It concerns Adrian.”

Jack looked up. “Who?”

“She means Ben,” Brady answered, reaching for another tortilla.

“Adrian,” she insisted, giving him a look. “And the man on his way here.”

This time four heads came up. Elena smiled encouragingly, but the glances passing between the three brothers told Jessica discussions had already commenced. And without her.

Understandable, but provoking nonetheless. She didn’t consider herself helpless and was somewhat irritated that they did, although in view of her recent behavior, she could see why they might. However, she was stronger now and able to take back the reins of control, which she fully intended to do. And she would begin with the truth, no matter how distasteful.

“The man coming here tomorrow has papers he wishes me to sign. His name is John Crawford. He is my sister’s husband and he . . . he is also the father of my son.”

Hank and Jack reacted with predictable surprise. Elena smiled encouragingly, and Brady’s scowl deepened. Taking a deep breath, she pressed on.

“The papers are the deed to my family home in England. Once before he tried to get me to sign over the property. When I refused, he punished me in the most degrading way possible, and promised he would continue to do so, unless I gave him the deed.”

Jack frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Christ, Jack.”

“It means he forced me.”

Silence.

Hank glowered at his plate.

Jack rounded on Brady. “What are you going to do?”

“It is not up to him,” she cut in.

When his brothers started to argue, Brady held up a hand to forestall them. “I gave my word to Rikker. And her.” It was an effort to stay out of it, but he knew she wouldn’t welcome his interference. This was her time, her moment. She was rising out of the ashes on the wings of her own power, and it was an amazing thing to see.

But he’d be there to catch her just in case she fell.

“If there is any bloodletting to be done,” Jessica said over Hank and Jack’s furious objections, “I shall do it. And I assure you if he touches me again, I will gladly carve him like a Christmas goose.” She smiled, liking the idea. By their expressions, they liked it, too.

It was laughable, really. After years of having to fight her battles alone, now she had more protectors than she knew what to do with. Dear, sweet men. She wanted to hug them all.

“If I do decide to do away with him, you may each have a go at him. Will that satisfy?”

While his brothers nodded, looking delighted at the prospect, Brady loosened his fists and pushed his plate away before he threw it against the wall. Every time he thought about what that bastard had done to Jessica, it sent his mind in raging spirals. Knowing what she had suffered, watching her struggle against her fears and finally overcome them, filled him with such a surge of emotion it was all he could do to stay in his seat.

And beneath the rage, what he felt most was pride.

“What is it? A castle or something?” Jack grinned at Hank. “Must be, if he’s coming all this way to get it.”

“It is but a small manor house and some acreage,” Jessica said.

“How much acreage?” Hank asked.

“Three hundred and twenty.”

“Hardly seems worth the trip.”

“Apparently John Crawford would disagree.” She masked her aggravation. It was always about size with this overlarge family. But in a land where everything was so new, it was no doubt difficult to understand a three-hundred-year history of family and tradition. “He needs it to pay off his creditors, either by securing loans against it, or mining the coal beneath it.”

Hank looked skeptical. “How much coal can there be under a half section of land?”

“A great deal, since it lies in the middle of the richest vein in Northumberland. With productive mines all around us, it would be economical as well as convenient to mine our land, too. There’s even a branch railway nearby. The mining consortium has been after us for years.”