Pieces of Sky (9 page)

“
Ven.
” Sancho turned back into the darkness of the cave.

On dragging feet, Paco followed.

The cave narrowed as they went deeper. Walls slanted in. Out of the darkness loomed the darker shadow of the tunnel entrance. Sancho ducked inside, taking the light with him. The sudden blackness sent Paco rushing after him. They had to bend almost double to clear the tunnel’s low ceiling. Water dripped onto Paco’s back. His boots slipped on mossy rocks. The air grew thick with the stink of fear and sweat and decay. Thirty more feet, a dogleg right, then the tunnel opened into an inner cavern twice as tall as it was wide. Deafened by the pounding of his heart, Paco straightened and looked around.

Maybe it would be all right. Maybe this time it would be different.

“I am back!”

Sancho’s voice bounced off the rocky walls with such force Paco cringed, hands clamped over his ears. As he watched his half brother spin a circle, laughing, his arms wide, the lantern bobbing in his grip, hate churned in Paco’s gut. He wanted to kill Sancho, tear out his throat so he would never have to listen to that laugh again.

So why didn’t he?

Paco let his hands drop. An idea formed in his mind, familiar yet elusive, and gaining strength with every heartbeat. He took ahold of it, studying it from all angles, shaping it until it fit comfortably in his head.

Why didn’t he?

Sancho’s plan to raid the rancho would never work. Everyone in the territory knew of the bad blood between the Ramirez and Wilkins families. They would know it was Sancho. But if they did kill the Wilkins brothers, what would happen to the rancho then? Would it revert back to the old grant? Back to the Ramirez family? And if there was no one left from that family either, would it then fall to the closest blood kin—to Paco, the illegitimate son of Don Ramon Ramirez?

Paco chewed the corner of his mustache as he thought it out. They would have to make it look like an accident—say, in a fire or a landslide. And then Paco would have to kill Sancho and Elena. He could do that. Sancho had trained him well. It might even be fun.

Paco smiled. He liked the sound of that.

 

 

BRADY BOLTED UPRIGHT, FULLY AWAKE AND MAD AS HELL BECAUSE someone was pounding on the soles of his feet and someone else was licking his face.

Faces stared back at him—Jack, his usual grin turned upside down into a scowl—Consuelo, teary-eyed, clutching her medicine basket—Hank, looking fierce despite the worry in his dark brown eyes—and Bullshot, his mouth open in a toothy grin, his tail wagging more than his body did.

“What’s wrong?” Thoughts of Sancho bounced through his mind.

“You’re fried, that’s what.” Hank shoved a pitcher into his hands. “If Bullshot hadn’t found you, you’d be jerky by now.”

Brady tried to go slow but the water tasted too good, and by the time Hank wrestled the pitcher from his grip, he felt queasy. He didn’t resist when his brother planted a beefy hand on his chest and shoved him back down. It was then Brady realized he was in his own bed and Jack was cutting off his new boots. He started to protest, then the first boot came off and the sudden release of pressure sent blood pounding through his foot in such an agonizing rush, for a moment he couldn’t even breathe. By the time they’d peeled away his socks and lathered the soles of his feet with Consuelo’s slippery elm salve, he’d recovered enough to ask for more water.

“Let the other settle,” Hank advised.

“It’s settled. Give me the pitcher.”

“You’ll get sick if you take too much.”

“Christ, man! I’m so dry my balls are rattling. Give me the damn pitcher.”

Hank gave him the pitcher. Jack and Consuelo finished wrapping his feet, then Consuelo left, dragging Bullshot with her. Propping his feet on a folded blanket to ease the throbbing, Brady looked at his brothers. “Sancho’s out.”

They didn’t seem surprised. “Sheriff Rikker told us,” Jack said.

“Where’s your horse?”

Leave it to Hank to worry more about the livestock than his older brother. Trapped in age between Brady and Jack, he was close to neither, preferring the predictability of a column of numbers or the quiet companionship of animals to the constant bickering of his brothers.

Brady told them about Bob, and his hike to the stopover, and how the stage broke an axle and ended up in the canyon below French Pass. He didn’t go into any detail about the passengers except to say five people were waiting for him to bring help and three of them were injured.

Consuelo returned with tortillas, a big bowl of frijoles, and another pitcher of water. Between mouthfuls, Brady related what he found at Jamison’s.

His brothers came to the same conclusion he had. Sancho.

Hank sighed. “So now it starts again.”

Jack stared out the window. “Sometimes I hate this damn place.”

No surprise there. But Brady didn’t have time to get into it with Jack. He could see the light was fading and knew he would have to leave soon. Her Ladyship expected him back over twelve hours ago.

“Rikker thought Sancho might head for Mexico instead of coming up this way,” Hank said.

“He’s already here.” Brady set aside the bowl of beans, his stomach suddenly queasy. He told them about the tracks on the south slope and the pinched-out smoke he’d found on the ledge. “We need to be ready.”

“We are.” Jack listed their preparations. All hands were to ride in twos. In addition to the bunkhouse cook, Sandoval, two men would be at the house at all times. To protect against fire, water barrels and gunnysacks had been set throughout the house and brush had been cleared from around all the buildings. Extra ammunition, canteens, and a two-day ration kit had been issued to each rider.

“Good.” Brady was relieved he didn’t have to worry about preparing the ranch in case Sancho showed up. He needed to get the stage passengers situated first.

“Good? You approve?” Jack put on a show of surprise. “Hear that, Hank? He approves.”

Ignoring him, Brady turned to Hank. “What about the Army herd?” Ever since snowmelt they’d been gathering cattle to meet the Indian Reservation beef contract the Army put out for bids every fall.

“We’re bringing those in the tally closer in. Don’t worry, they’re under guard.”

“Hell, he likes to worry,” Jack muttered. “That and nag.”

This time Brady let his irritation show. “I’m not nagging. I’m asking. There’s a difference. Has anybody told Elena about Sancho?”

Jack swung back to the window.

Hank glanced from one brother to the other then shrugged. “She knows, but she won’t leave her cabin.”

“She has to,” Brady said. “Tell her she won’t be safe out there alone.”

Jack turned with a smile that didn’t reach his gunmetal blue eyes. “Why don’t you tell her, Big Brother? I’m sure she’ll come running when she hears you’re hurt.”

“Damnit, Jack—”

“We don’t have time for this,” Hank cut in with that edgy tone he used whenever Brady and Jack butted heads. On the rare occasions he allowed himself to be drawn into their arguments, he usually responded with a ferocious burst of impatience that left someone other than himself bruised, or bleeding, or both.

Jack the hothead, Brady the hardhead, and Hank the reluctant peacekeeper caught between. It was a long-standing family joke, but Brady had stopped laughing years ago. “Somebody needs to tell her.”

When Jack didn’t volunteer, Hank muttered something, then sighed. “I’ll tell her.”

“She’ll take it hard, so be nice,” Brady warned.

“I’m always nice, damnit.”

Brady allowed that most of the time he was. Hank wasn’t mean-hearted; he just preferred being around creatures that didn’t feel the need to muddy a fine day with a lot of words or emotion.

With a yawn, Brady slumped back. Fatigue hummed along his nerves. Hot bursts of pain jumped across his shoulders and into the back of his head. Maybe if he rested just a few minutes . . .

But as soon as he closed his eyes, a face appeared—whiskey colored eyes, cinnamon freckles, wild chestnut hair.
Christ.

“I have to go. They’re waiting.” He started up.

Hank pushed him back down. “We’ll take care of it. Tell us what you need.”

Brady told him to load the hay wagon with a water barrel, blankets, food, lanterns, and Consuelo’s medicine basket. “And Hank,” he called as his brother started for the door. “I want Buck on shotgun and at least two, maybe three, riders with us. Whoever you can spare.”

Hank nodded and left, his heavy footfalls sending vibrations through the plank floor.

“You’re going back there tonight?” Jack asked, turning from the window.

“They won’t make it another day.” Muscles twitched and jerked as Brady pressed the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes. “Besides, I gave her my word.”

Damn.
Realizing his mistake, he lowered his hands to find Jack watching him. Hoping to avoid more questions, he quickly added, “Send a rider for Doc and Rikker and tell the Overland office what happened.”

“You’re bringing the passengers back here?”

Brady yawned. His lids felt heavy as stone. “Val Rosa’s too far.” He felt like he was sinking under water. “Wake me . . . later.”

 

 

HE AWOKE TO FULL DARK AND A GENTLE TOUCH ON HIS BROW.

He started up, then the pain hit, and he flopped back with a curse.

“Shh,” a soft voice said. “Rest.”

Cracking open one eye, he saw the familiar face that was so stunningly beautiful it never failed to take his breath away. “Elena.” She had her rosary out. Did that mean he was dying?

Her smile told him no. “What have you done to yourself this time,
pobrecito
?”

Before he could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall.

Jack came through the doorway. When he saw Elena, he stopped. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said in a cold voice.

Elena’s smile faded. She rose. With a hand braced on the back of her chair for balance, she turned toward the doorway. “I will go.”

“Stay,” Brady ordered, bringing her to a halt. He glared at his brother, but said nothing, knowing it would only upset Elena if he did. Despite his self-professed reputation as a backdoor Romeo and an expert on women, Jack could be dumber than cordwood sometimes. “Get me a fresh shirt,” he told his brother.

Grabbing a shirt off a peg beside the door, he tossed it toward the bed. “Wagon’s loaded. Putnam’s gone for Doc and Sheriff Rikker. Everybody’s ready but you.”

Biting back a groan, Brady pulled himself upright. Joints popped in protest. The rank aftertaste of frijoles bubbled in his throat. But when his feet touched the floor, any lingering numbness left his mind. “Jesus!” He stared down at his throbbing feet. Consuelo must have wrapped them in a dozen yards of cotton sacking. All that showed were the tips of his blistered toes, and they looked like venison sausages. It would be a month before he got boots on again.

Moving gingerly, he removed one shirt and pulled on the other. “Elena, I want you to move into the house for a while,” he said as he buttoned. “And not just because of Sancho. I’m bringing the passengers back here. There’s a woman—three women.” As he tossed the dirty shirt into the corner beside his bloodstained boots, he saw Jack frowning at him. “They might feel better having another female around.”

“I will be glad to help.” Elena limped toward the door, then hesitated. “Be careful,” she said, glancing at Jack, then quickly away. “Both of you.”

 

 

A FEW MINUTES LATER THE WAGON LUMBERED OUT THE gate, Brady resting against the side rails in back, Buck and Jack sitting up front. Three other men rode with them—Rufus on point, Abe on drag, and Rodriquez on the east ridge—all armed to the teeth. Luckily it was another cloudless night and the moon was up early. By Brady’s calculation, they should reach the canyon just before dawn.

Hoping to get some rest, he stretched out and closed his eyes, but Jack started in before they cleared the first rise. “So who’s the woman?”

Brady kept his eyes closed, pretending sleep.

“What woman?” Ru asked, reining his sorrel beside the wagon.

“The one my brother won’t talk about.”

“Boss has a woman? The hell you say!”

Brady wondered why he sounded so surprised. Just because he didn’t chase after everything in skirts didn’t mean he didn’t like women. He liked them fine. More than fine. But unlike these pudknockers, he had responsibilities and a ranch to run. He couldn’t afford to let his cock do his thinking for him.

“Brady says three of the passengers are women,” One-Track-Jack said.

“Three! The hell you say!”

With a silent curse, Brady opened his eyes and sat up. Realizing where Jack was headed, he tried to head him off. “In El Paso I met a man from Australia. Sydney, I think it was.”

Jack went for it like a bull trout after a mayfly. “Australia? Did he say anything about the Blue Mountains? I read they’re so misty it’s like riding through clouds.”

Buck wasn’t as easy to fool. He turned and gave Brady a thoughtful look, although he didn’t say anything. He rarely did. His wife, Iantha, said the man was so tight-mouthed it was a wonder he didn’t starve to death. Mostly he let his eyes do the talking, and right now they were asking Brady why he would bring up such a sore subject when it was well known the two brothers couldn’t talk about Australia without squaring off. But Brady ignored Buck and let Jack ramble on about kookaburras, wallabies, and koalas—whatever the hell they were. He knew no matter how much Jack wanted to emigrate, he wouldn’t leave until this thing with Sancho was finished. So for now, he just let him talk.

Buck faced forward again. Jack moved on to tales of sheep stations a hundred miles across, wild dingoes, and an animal named Joey that could perch on its tail and box like a man with its back feet. The kid would believe anything.