Pieces of Sky (33 page)

“Why not sell?” Hank persisted. “Then he’d have no reason to come after you.”

“It’s not mine to sell. I simply hold it for my oldest daughter, and my daughter’s oldest daughter, and so on.” Seeing their confusion, she explained. “Bickersham Hall has been passed down through the elder daughters of my mother’s line ever since it was granted as a dower property in the sixteenth century. I will not be forced by a despicable coward like John Crawford to break a three-hundred-year tradition. I will never sell.”

Brady felt that surge of pride again. It pleased him the woman understood the value of land and how important it was to build something that would last for generations. It was a concept his brothers lost sight of from time to time.

“What happens if there’s no daughter?” Jack asked.

“Then it would be Adrian’s to hold in trust for his daughter.”

“And if Ben died before he had children?” Brady asked.

“If my line dies out then, it would go to my sister, Annie.”

“Crawford’s wife.”

“Yes.”

Jessica could see by their expressions when full understanding dawned. Jack looked furious again, Elena anxious, Hank scowled behind his beard, and Brady seemed to be grinding his teeth.

“You see now why I ran.” She sent Brady a pleading look, willing him to understand and not think her a coward. “He would have killed me to get the deed. Then who would have protected Annie and her children? As long as I’m alive and I refuse to sign, they’re safe.”

Forget your sister
.
What about you?
Brady doubted the wisdom of letting her handle this. She was so busy protecting everybody else, she didn’t see the danger to herself.

Hank looked shocked. “He would kill his own family?”

“I don’t know. I underestimated him before and paid the price. I will not do so again.”

Brady propped an elbow on the table and idly tugged at the corner of his mustache. Maybe he should kill the bastard after all. Maybe give him a rattler to play with. Take him for a long walk and forget to bring him back. Or let him ride Widowmaker. That would be a treat.

Jessica watched him, sensing that pent-up restlessness in him, that need for action. But instead of jumping in and assuming control as he was accustomed to doing, he left the reins in her hands. She appreciated the effort that took.

“So what do you want us to do?” Hank asked.

“The papers have been drawn and witnessed, and are now locked in the bank. Additional copies have been sent to my solicitor in England. With your help, I hope to convince Crawford to give up and leave without the deed.”

“What papers?” Hank asked.

“My Last Will and Testament, for one. It names Adrian my heir and provides for the transference of Bickersham Hall to him should I die. I have also set up a trust that would ensure his safety and support until his majority.”

Hank and Jack nodded. Brady remained impassive, although she saw his eyes had taken on a considering look that didn’t bode well. He had stopped tugging on his mustache, and now his forearm lay on the table in front of him, his blunt-tipped fingers drumming softly on the tabletop. “Explain this trust.”

Heat inched up her neck. She gripped her knees so tightly she could feel the sharp edge of fingernails through her skirt and two petticoats. How many times had this man already come to her rescue? Whenever she had faltered, he had been there, quietly offering his strength to help her back onto her feet. Could she impose on him one more time?

“As I said, it names Adrian trustee of the Hall until he has a daughter.” She hiked her chin, determined not to weaken under those watchful eyes. “It also names a guardian for him.”

“And who is this guardian?”

“You.”

No one spoke. Jessica held his gaze, letting him see her need, hoping it would convince him to do this one last thing for her and for her son. “If you consent, of course.”

Before Brady could answer, Jack’s palm slapped the table with a crack as loud as a gunshot. “Hell, you ought to just marry the sonofabitch.”

“W-What?”

“Marry Brady.”

Shocked silence. Elena and Hank stared at Jack. Brady stared at Jessica. But still, he didn’t speak. A telling silence.

“Well, why not?” Jack looked around the table. “She needs a husband, the kid needs a father, and he damn sure needs a wife. What say, Hank? Elena?” He laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Maybe we should throw in some trinkets to sweeten the deal.”

“
Cállate
, Jackson,” Elena scolded, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.

Brady tried to keep his temper in check while he planned all the ways he would make Jack pay. He could see Jessica was upset, but the little bastard had backed him into a corner. Now no matter what he said, she would probably take it wrong or think Jack had pushed him into it.

Shocked and a bit hurt by Brady’s silence—not that she had any intention of marrying him or anyone else, but still, if he didn’t want her, why had he said those outrageous things last night?—Jessica adopted what she hoped was an expression of amused tolerance. She raised a cautionary hand. “There is no need to martyr your brother on the sacrificial altar, Jack. This is not about my safety. It’s about Adrian and his future should I die. I have named Brady guardian because I know he would never allow anything to befall my son.” She waited to see if he would refuse her, wondering what she would do if he did.

“I’d be proud to watch over Ben,” he finally said.

My woman. My son.
In his mind Brady raised a fist in triumph.

Jessica sank back, so relieved she almost forgot that she had had to force him into it. “Adrian,” she corrected with a gracious nod.

Brady just smiled.

 

 

THERE WERE TWO WAYS TO CALM AN UPSET WOMAN, BUT Brady doubted Jessica would allow him to do either. So instead of going out onto the porch after supper as he usually did, he grabbed Jack by the scruff of his neck and steered him down the hall to his office. He used his brother’s head to open the door, shoved him through, then slammed the door shut behind them.

“You little sonofabitch!”

Jack grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “You bent my hat.”

“I’ll bend your ass around a stump and call the dogs if you ever do that again!”

Jack squinted at him as though trying to focus. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’m mad, you stupid bastard.”

“No. That thing about the stump. Why would the dogs—”

“Shut up.” Brady stomped over to the desk. Yanking open the bottom drawer, he grabbed his special bottle of Hannah Goodman’s Red-Rye Whiskey, reputed to be the finest brew to come out of Mormon country and guaranteed to turn an ugly woman pretty, or a confirmed bachelor into a polygamist with a single sip. He took two swallows straight from the bottle. Plopping down in his chair, he propped his feet on the corner of his desk and waited for his lips to go numb.
Christ.

“What about me?” Jack asked, eyeing the bottle.

“Go to hell.”

“Then where’s the jug?”

“Doc stole it.” With a curse, Brady opened the drawer again, pulled out a dusty bottle of Forty Rod, and tossed it to his brother. “Suck on this.”

Jack made a face. “This stuff tastes like cow piss.”

“Better’n you deserve.”

“It’ll make my eyes bleed.”

“Then give it back.”

Jack took a sip and made a gagging noise. “Jesus. It’s worse than her coffee.”

“Shut up about her coffee.”

Pulling one of the rope-strung chairs from a corner, Jack sat and propped his heels on the other side of the desk. “You seem touchy, Big Brother. I wonder why?”

Brady toyed with the idea of shooting him, but decided that would probably wake the kid. He thought about dragging him to the barn, where he could beat the sass out of him in privacy, but discarded that idea, too. Maybe tomorrow. After Crawford left, he’d be wanting to hit something, and God knows Jack deserved it. “You shouldn’t have said what you did.”

Jack took a sip then swiped at his watering eyes. “Why not?” he wheezed. “It’s plain you have warm feelings for her. I was just trying to soften her up.”

Warm feelings?
Brady almost laughed. His feelings were so warm, his balls felt blistered. But now, thanks to Jack, it might be weeks—months—forever—before he got her primed again. “Just stay out of it.”

Jack shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.” Brady held out his hand. “Give me the bottle and get out.”

“Although . . .” Jack tipped the chair back on two legs and studied the ceiling. “She did seem taken with the idea.”

Brady’s hand sagged onto the desktop. “She did?”

“Not openly, of course. But if you understood women like I do, you’d know the signs.” He took a swig, coughed, then grinned. “I think it’s a good idea. I think you should marry her.”

Brady studied his bottle, wondering how the conversation had drifted so far. “Yeah. Well. I intend to.” And he sure as hell didn’t need advice from his little brother. Jack had the morals of a mining camp faro dealer and his taste in women proved it. Jessica was a different breed altogether.

“When?”

“When what?”

“When are you going to marry her? Assuming she’ll have you.”

“When this thing with Sancho is over.”

Jack laughed. “That could be forever. Your tongue is hanging out as it is.”

“That’s not my tongue.”

Which only made Jack laugh harder. “Just do it. Before she leaves you standing in the dust with your cock in your hand.”

“Hell, I’d need two hands for that.”

“I’m just saying you better make your move before it’s too late.”

“Oh? How’s this, then?” Brady drove a foot hard against Jack’s propped boots and sent him toppling backward. His brother and the chair hit the floor with a rewarding thud that made the glass doors of the bookcases rattle.

He peered around the side of the desk to see if Jack was hurt and was disappointed to see he wasn’t. As he settled back, a baby’s indignant cry echoed through the hall. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Me?” Jack untangled himself from the chair and struggled to his feet. “You’re the one who pushed me over.” He winced, this time rubbing the back of his head. “I think I’m getting a headache.”

“Serves you right.”

His woman. His son.
Brady sure liked the sound of that.

Seventeen

JESSICA AWOKE AT DAWN, EXHAUSTED FROM NIGHTMARISH dreams of John Crawford.

Throughout the morning she stayed busy, battling the anxiety that built with every hour. When she wasn’t pacing the confines of her room or tending Adrian, she sewed, taking in dress seams she had let out two months ago and finishing the samplers for the ranch women who had donated so many lovely things for her babies.

She whipped her needle in short, furious strokes, wishing it were his face she was stabbing. It had been over six months since she had last seen her brother-in-law. Did he think she was still the weak, frightened woman he had overpowered before? Didn’t he realize she would never let him do that to her again? Just the thought of it made her want to vomit—the smell of him—the whiskey and sweat—the feel of his hands—

I can’t do this!
Panting with fear, she lurched to her feet. Her eyes swept the room, looking for escape. Then her gaze fell on Adrian, and the need for flight slowly died. She sank back into the chair, cupped her head in trembling hands, and waited for the panic to subside. When it did, she picked up her sewing, tore out the ragged seam, and began again. But inside, the rage simmered.

Morning dragged into afternoon. Moving Adrian’s cradle near the window so she would hear him if he woke, she paced the porch, marking time by the slow arc of the sun across the cloudless sky. What if something had happened? What if Crawford never came, and she spent the rest of her life in this terrible limbo of wondering, and waiting, and looking fearfully into the face of every man she saw?

She couldn’t bear it. She would die.

Bullshot wandered out from under the house and sat in the dirt, scratching and watching her pace. After a while the sun chased him up into the shaded porch. He flopped onto his belly, his head on his paws, those doleful eyes tracking her steps.

“You think I’m pathetic,” she said to him as she started another circuit. “All this walking but going nowhere.”

He cocked his head, belly-crawled forward a few inches, and stopped. When she said nothing more, he sighed and dropped his head back onto his paws.

When she wearied of pacing, she sank into the rocker. Shadows lengthened. The hound inched toward her with hopeful canine insistence, until finally he leaned against her skirts, his wide head a heavy weight on her knee. “If you drool on me, I’ll spank you,” she warned, stroking one long velvety ear.