Pieces of Sky (38 page)

The quiet solitude of the garden fitted her mood. Sinking onto one of the stone benches, she let the stillness of the evening soothe her battered spirit. How could she fix this? What was wrong with her that she would allow fear to overshadow trust, even love?

A sound caught her attention—a soft whimper.

Glancing around, she saw movement in the shadows along the back wall. She rose and moved toward it, poised to flee if it was one of those Gila monster lizards, or some feral animal that had found its way past the courtyard gate.

It was Bullshot.

Even in the fading light, she could see the bloody wound on his side. Murmuring softly, she reached out, then snatched her hand back when he snarled, eyes wild in pain. Realizing she needed help, she rushed across the courtyard.

She was almost to the gate when she heard a crash then a woman’s cry coming from one of the rooms that opened onto the covered walkway skirting the courtyard. Elena’s room. Every instinct told her to run, that something terrible was happening in that room.

Instead, she threw back her head and screamed for Brady as loudly as she could. Then she grabbed the gardening hoe she had left propped beside the gate and raced toward Elena’s door.

The room was dim, lit by a single lamp on the dresser, but there was enough light to see the hunched form on top of Elena and the terror on her face as she fought him. Jessica ran toward the bed, hoe raised. She brought it down across his back with such force the dry wood splintered and the shaft broke in two.

With a guttural cry, he swung out and knocked the broken hoe from her grip.

She raced after it.

He reached it first and kicked it away, then kicked at her as she bolted for the door.

She went down hard, saw him raise his leg, and rolled to the side as his boot slammed to the floor beside her head. Grabbing the broken handle, she swung blindly as she struggled to get up.

A glancing blow sent her down again. He came toward her, snarling and cursing. She scrambled back, the handle in her hand, waiting for him to lift his foot to kick her again. When he did, she drove the jagged end of the splintered hoe into his other leg.

With a cry, he staggered back, clawing at the stick impaled in his thigh.

“Elena, run!” she screamed. Wildly scanning the room, she saw the other woman huddled in the corner by the bed, her face streaked with blood. “Run!”

Shrieking in Spanish, the man started toward Elena, then froze when voices rose outside. As he turned toward the door, Jessica saw his face—the scraggly beard, the crazed look in those dark almond-shaped eyes that were so like Elena’s—and realized it was her brother, Sancho.

Elena cowered as he turned toward her. But instead of renewing his attack, he grabbed the lamp from the dresser and threw it against the door.

The lamp shattered, sending arcs of liquid fire shooting throughout the room. Flames exploded, engulfing the wood, the wall. As Sancho lunged for the window, the bedding caught fire, then the curtains. Elena began to scream.

Jessica crawled toward her, saw Elena’s gown was on fire, and tore it free. Grabbing the injured woman around the waist, she dragged her toward the door. Flames blocked their way. Coughing, she crawled toward the window.

Heat built. She couldn’t breathe. The smoke was already so thick she could scarcely see. Elena went limp in her arms.

Then suddenly the door exploded inward, and men rushed into the room. Hands grabbed at her. “Take Elena,” she rasped, shoving her friend forward. “She’s hurt.”

Then her vision dimmed as arms lifted her from the floor.

Nineteen

A MOMENT LATER SHE FOUND HERSELF STRETCHED ON THE ground in the courtyard, staring up into a smoky starlit sky and Brady’s scowling face.

“Damn you, woman! Are you hurt?”

She might have taken offense if his voice hadn’t been shaking and his face hadn’t looked so pale beneath the sooty smudges. He still cared. She hadn’t ruined everything after all. She tried to reassure him, but the effort to speak sent her into a fit of coughing. Propping up her head, he thrust a cup of water into her face and commanded her to drink.

She tried, but his hand trembled so much, most of the water spilled down her chin. When she finished, he lowered her back down rather than help her sit up, which was for the best, since even the smallest movement made her wooly-headed.

“How can you be so goddamned stupid?”

“I thought you were going to stop cursing,” she managed in a raspy voice, then frowned when she saw the redness on the back of his hand. “Are you hurt?”

“You could have gotten killed!”

“I knew you would come. It was Sancho. He was hurting Elena. When I saw him on top of her, I . . . did he . . . is she hurt?”

“He hit her, that’s all. Bruised and a few blisters, but she’s okay.”

How can a woman ever be okay after an assault like that?

He must have anticipated her other concerns because he quickly supplied answers to her unspoken questions. “The fire’s out, Hank’s working on Bullshot, and Angelina’s with Ben.”

“Sancho?”

That look came over his face, the one that had made Oran Phelps sweat and John Crawford scurry like a crab across hot rocks. “He left through the window. We were more worried about getting you and Elena out than chasing after him.”

“I stabbed him.” She shuddered, remembering the sound of the stick going into his flesh. “In the leg. He was bleeding.”

“You’re safe now.”

She pushed herself upright, wincing at the sharp pull of bruised muscles. He helped her to the garden bench, then once she was settled, he began to pace, his hands working at his sides. “Jesus, how could I have let this happen? He was in the house, for chrissakes! He could have killed her.” He whirled, his eyes frantic and furious. “Or you. From now on, don’t leave the house without at least two men with you. Don’t even come into the courtyard or—”

“Brady, stop! Don’t do this to yourself. This was not your fault.”

He lifted his hands in agitation. “I’m in charge. How can it not be my fault?”

“Please. Sit. You make me dizzy with all your pacing.”

Reluctantly, he sat. Bracing his elbows on his thighs, he clasped his hands tightly between his knees.

She studied him for a moment. As she did, she realized something that had eluded her, the most important piece to the puzzle of who he was and why he made the choices he did. He was afraid. Afraid of failing, of being found unworthy, of opening his heart to forgiveness and love. He had already lost so much, it terrified him to think that it might be his mistake, his weakness, that would cause further loss.

“Things happen, Brady,” she said quietly. “Evil men disrupt our lives. People we love die. Stagecoaches crash and we survive, while others do not. You cannot anticipate everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you so eager to take the blame when anything bad does happen?”

He looked over at her. “What’re you talking about?”

“What happened tonight. Elena’s hip. Sam’s death.”

His mouth flattened into a thin, grim line.

She pushed on, determined to say it all. “You’re not expected to be everywhere, Brady. Or think of everything, or foresee every danger or pitfall. It’s impossible. Especially when a madman like Sancho Ramirez is involved.”

“It’s my job,” he muttered, staring at his clenched hands.

“Then I fear you’re doomed to failure, because even you cannot control everything.”

“I don’t try to control everything. Just the important things.”

“Don’t you? What about Sam? Why haven’t you told your brothers what happened?”

He frowned over at her. “What’s Sam got to do with this?”

“You’re not responsible for what happened tonight, Brady, any more than you’re responsible for what happened to him. Or Elena. Or your parents, or any one of the other dozen lives lost to this feud.”

She wanted to reach out and gently wipe that haunted look from his face. But she sensed he wouldn’t welcome even that small comfort. Brady hoarded his pain like gold, as if the sharing of it would diminish him somehow.

“Tell your brothers. Relieve yourself of that burden, at least.”

“To what end?” he said in an exasperated tone. “What would telling them accomplish? And why are we even talking about this?”

It might lessen your guilt
, she thought.
It might open the door to forgiveness. To love. To me.
“The truth is what it is, Brady. Hiding it won’t change it, and often brings more pain than ease.”

“And you know this how?” he lashed out in challenge. “By telling your sister what her husband did? By telling Crawford about his son?”

She stiffened, her defenses coming up. “I’m trying to protect Adrian.”

“And I’m trying to protect my brothers.”

The fight went out of her. He was right. She was right. They were both wrong. “Point taken,” she said as she stiffly pushed herself to her feet. She started toward the house, then hesitated. Looking down at his bent head, she said, “But do you ever question it, Brady? Who is it we’re really protecting—them, or ourselves?”

 

 

SANCHO CROUCHED UNDER THE OVERHANG, FEEDING THE tiny fire with sticks and dry grass. He was so furious his hands shook. Who was she, that
puta
who had kept him from taking what was his? How dare she raise her hand against him.

He glanced down at the bloody kerchief tied above his knee, and his fury built until it was a white-hot fire burning through his mind. He would kill her. Peel the skin from her body. Stake her in the sun for the ants and scorpions to enjoy.

With a shaking hand, he pulled the knife from his boot and cut away the fabric to expose the wound she had given him. Jagged and seeping, it showed splinters and bits of cloth embedded in the torn flesh. He poked at it with his finger and shuddered with pain. Cursing through his teeth, he forced himself to clean the wound. When he had finished, he slid the blade of the knife into the coals then reached into his saddlebag for the bottle of tequila.

As he drank, he thought about the woman with the red hair. Did she belong to Wilkins? His whore? She must be. He smiled, thinking how he would use her in front of Wilkins. Before he finished with her, she would lick his feet and beg him to end her pain.

He took several more swallows, then braced himself and poured the last of the whiskey into the wound. A cry tore through his throat. He hunched over, gasping and nauseated. After the shaking stopped, he wrapped a rag around the grip of the knife and pulled it from the coals.

“
Madre de Dios, ayúdame.
” Teeth clenched, he pressed the glowing blade against the torn flesh. An instant of searing pain, a sizzling sound, then he tumbled into darkness.

When he opened his eyes, the fire barely glowed and the stars shone high overhead. The pain in his leg was so terrible he could not move, could not think. Shaking and sweating, he stared up into the sky, breathing in that familiar sweet smell of charred meat. It reminded him of Maria.

Whispering her name, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain.

 

 

“HE WAS IN OUR HOUSE, FOR CHRISSAKES!”

Brady rubbed the heels of his palms against eyes still stinging from smoke. He was so drained he felt like he was swimming through mud. “I know, Jack.”

“If he came once and got away with it, he’ll come again,” Hank said, his normally mild expression hardening into an aspect as harsh and forbidding as any Jacob had presented.

“I know.” The image of Jessica huddled over Elena in that fiery hellhole was branded into Brady’s mind forever. After that fiasco at the river, it was like losing her all over again. He sighed bitterly. The two most important women in his life and he couldn’t even protect them.

“So what are we going to do?” Jack demanded.

Brady rose and went to the open door onto the porch. He sensed change all around him—in this room, out there, within himself—and for the first time in a long time, he felt doubt. Maybe Jessica was right. Maybe if he stopped holding on so tight, everything would start to make sense again. But for that to happen, he would have to start with the truth and he wasn’t ready for that.

He went back to his desk. Pulling the bottle of whiskey from the drawer, he took a sip then passed it to Hank. After the bottle made two circuits, he recorked it and dropped it back into the drawer. “Besides the ranch, what does Sancho want? Me. I propose we give him exactly that.”

Jack snorted. “Pin a bow in your hair and stake you out for him to find? Helluva plan.”

Brady pulled a map from the drawer and spread it open across the desk. “I say we move the Reservation herd to Vintin Canyon.” He pointed to a spot south of Blue Mesa. “It’s boxed in, broad enough to feed that many cattle for a week, has good water and sheer sides. Easy to guard if he tries to run a stampede.”