by Warner, Kaki
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Teaser chapter
“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”
“I admit I am.” His mustache quirked up at the corners. “You make it so easy.”
He reached into his shirt pocket. “And by the way . . .” He leaned forward, an odd glint in those aqua eyes. In his fingers he held a copper coin.
She tried to draw back, couldn’t, and in mute helplessness watched him take her hand in his. With great care he placed the coin into her gloved palm. “I don’t take money from women. No matter how grateful they are.”
She forgot how to breathe. How to think, or move. He was so near she could smell sweat, horses, old smoke. And at that moment, as she stared into the bright intensity of those startling eyes, she realized how badly she had underestimated this man.
And to prove it he did the most extraordinary thing.
He smiled . . .
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2010 by Kathleen Warner.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / January 2010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warner, Kaki.
Pieces of sky / Kaki Warner.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.
p. cm.—(Blood rose trilogy ; bk. 1)
eISBN : 978-1-101-17135-6
1. Single woman—Fiction. 2. Ranchers—Fiction. 3. English—United States—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.W37P54 2010
813’.6—dc22 2009033593
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Joe, Jason, and Sara, my patient and supportive family. And to Lillie, the sister of my heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many heartfelt thanks to:
Joe, my construction and railroad expert.
Jason, my gun expert.
Sara, who deftly managed the cheese meter.
Carlee, nurse extraordinaire and my medical expert.
Clara Garza, who knows way too many Spanish dirty words.
And my supportive critiquers, listeners, readers, and friends: Billee Escott, Frances Sonnabend, Cyndi Thomson, Bonnie Maltais, Janet Boyce, Carol Ranck, and of course, Jack Hoffman.
Bless ya’ll.
One
New Mexico Territory, 1869
I’M A DEAD MAN.
Brady Wilkins dragged a hand over his face then wiped his bloody fingers on his shirt. Nine o’clock, and already he was wet with sweat. It soaked the headband of his hat, gathered in his eyebrows and mustache, stung like hell in the gash across his cheekbone. His left eye was swollen shut, his knee hurt like a sonofabitch, and if he was lucky, he might survive a day. Hell.
Despite the stupidity that had brought him to this sorry state, he didn’t consider himself a stupid man. He knew in the high desert survival was a tenuous thing, challenged by flash floods, hostiles, rattlers, and sometimes, like today, something as commonplace as a low-lying, leg-grabbing sage branch. He also knew his chances of survival were slim—slimmer if he didn’t start now.
But first he would have to shoot his horse.
Squinting through his right eye, he studied the rolling expanse of withered scrub that stretched behind him. He pivoted and checked the opposite direction. Through the heat shimmers dancing along the horizon, he barely made out the blunt-nosed shadow of Blue Mesa rising out of the flatlands thirty-five miles away. Five miles beyond it was the south boundary of RosaRoja and home. Forty miles on foot, in late spring, with a near-empty canteen and not even a tree to piss on. It might as well be a hundred.
With a sigh, he looked down at his horse.
Blood darkened the dirt beneath him, flowing from a pulpy mass of torn flesh, tendon, and bone just above the fetlock. With every breath out, he groaned.
“Damnit, Bob. Now look what you’ve done.”
Mostly he was angry with himself. If he hadn’t stayed up so late drinking and talking bulls with McPherson, he wouldn’t have dozed off and he would have been more aware of where his horse was stepping. Now he would have to shoot one of the finest animals he’d ever owned.
“Hell, you probably killed us both.”
As he approached the stricken animal, he noted that the saddlebags and his prized Winchester Model 1866 repeating rifle were pinned beneath Bob’s twelve-hundred-pound weight. He couldn’t leave them behind. Nor could he see a way to retrieve them without getting the animal back on its feet. Sickened by what he had to do, he unlashed the rope tied to the front of the saddle.
Mindful of thrashing legs and the injury, he slipped the rope around the broken leg above the knee, pulled it taut then looped it around the saddle horn. The trailing end he ran over his shoulder and across his back. Positioning himself out of kicking range behind the horse, he began to pull, hoping to use his strength and the rope sling to help Bob back onto his feet.
Bob fought him but Brady held on, plowing the dirt with the sloped heels of his boots. Air hissed through his teeth. His thighs shook. Muscles across his back burned where the rope cut in.
With a squeal of pain, Bob whipped his head back and thrust with his haunches, sending h
is body up and forward onto three legs. After finding his balance, he stood shuddering, his nose almost brushing the ground.
Breathing hard, Brady approached the trembling animal. “Easy, boy.”
Bob snapped at him, eyes rolling, teeth clicking against the bit.
After stripping the horse, Brady drew his Colt from the holster on his hip. An unbidden image flashed in his mind of another day on the desert, another soul twisting in agony. He closed his eyes and tried to block it, telling himself this time would be easier; this time it was only a horse.
Bob’s groan jerked him back from the past. Resolved, Brady checked the load, snapped the chamber closed, then raised the pistol. “I’ll miss you, you clumsy bastard.” Pointing the muzzle into Bob’s ear, he squeezed the trigger and stepped clear.
The horse folded, slamming to earth in an explosion of dust quickly swept away on a hot gust of wind. Ears ringing, Brady reloaded and holstered the pistol, then lifted his head to study the endless maze of creosote and cactus fanning away on all sides. Overhead, not a single lint-ball cloud relieved the unrelenting blue, and in the distance the jagged silhouette of the Sacramento Mountains was as sharp as a Mexican blade.
Forty miles in this heat, wearing these boots, packing eighty pounds of gear. He’d never make it. Unless . . .
He looked east, plotting a map in his head, trying to gauge where the Overland came through on its way to Val Rosa. If he cut straight across, he had a chance. He might even get a horse at the stage stop. With renewed energy, he tied the bridle and canteen to the saddle, then tossed the saddlebags and rifle scabbard over one shoulder, the saddle over the other. He left the saddle blanket. With a final nod to a fine horse, he headed east, gaze fixed on distant landmarks hanging above the wavering horizon.
If he didn’t lose his bearings and kept his pace up, and if his new custom-made pointy-toed riding boots didn’t rub his toes to stubs, he might make it to the stopover before the westbound stage came through.
“YOU MARRIED?”
Startled from her worries, Jessica Thornton glanced across the aisle of the jouncing stagecoach to find Mr. Bodine staring at her breasts. Again. Ever since he’d boarded that morning, the man had engaged in the most astounding repertoire of activities to gain her attention—snoring, gawking, scratching, spitting, and now—wonder of wonders—actual words.
She ignored him. That was her plan. No conversation, no eye contact, no behavior that would draw notice; anonymity was her best protection. She just hoped it would be more effective against John Crawford than it apparently was on Bodine.
“I said, are you married?”
She glanced at the other passengers, fearful they had overheard. Stanley Ashford, the dapper railroad representative, dozed, his fair head bobbing against his chest. Across from him napped Maude Kinderly, slumped against the window frame, her coalscuttle bonnet mashed against her cheek, frizzy gray curls stuck to her brow. Her grown daughter, Melanie, was engrossed in another of her lurid dime novels. Jessica turned to Bodine.
“I am a widow.” That was the story she had decided upon when she left England two months earlier, thinking it might provide respectability and protection from unwanted discourse.
“A widow.” He grinned. “Wanna get married then?”
“I do not.”
His smile faded. “It’s not a bad offer, considerin’.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, you’re kinda tall and you got that devil hair and a funny way of talking, but I’m not picky.” Somehow mistaking her stony silence for interest, he expounded on his offer. “I got diggin’s over by Silver City,” he told her breasts. “Not much yet, but promisin’. If you wanted, I could put up a soddy.”
“I do not want, nor will I ever want, a soddy.” Whatever that was.
“You’d rather a cabin, I guess.”
“No. Never. Absolutely not.” How many ways must she say it? She pressed a limp hanky to her brow, wondering what she could possibly have done to elicit such an offer—her third within a week and all from total strangers. Apparently women were so scarce in this wasteland, even twenty-six-year-old spinsters were preyed upon. She wondered if that would hold true should she open her traveling cape to reveal she was also five and a half months pregnant.
Merciful heavens, if Annie could see her now. All those years preaching decorum to her little sister, and now here she was fending off the advances of a strange man on a public conveyance. The irony of it was so ludicrous she didn’t know whether to burst into peals of hysterical laughter or collapse with a wail of despair.
But then, ladies never wailed and rarely laughed aloud. As expressly stated in Pamphlet Five: “Public displays of emotion are to be avoided. Laughter must be subdued, and tears, if necessary, must flow in a discreet manner into a spotless linen held delicately to the mouth.” Exactly as she had written it in her lovely office at Bickersham Hall in quiet, civilized Posten Cross, Northumberland, England.
Anguish clutched at her throat. Had Annie received her letter? Did her sister suspect why Jessica had run? Did she wonder what had become of her?
The coach lurched, throwing her against the door and driving her straw skimmer halfway down her forehead. Blinded by ribbons and plumes, she grappled for the safety strap and dug in her heels, barely keeping herself from toppling to the floor. With a hiss of irritation, she shoved the hat out of her eyes to find Mr. Bodine grinning at her bosom.
She was not unaccustomed to the attention of men. Perhaps it was because of her height. She was tall, but not freakishly so, despite what that dwarfish Frenchman said in New Orleans. Or perhaps it was her hair that drew notice. Some men liked red hair. She did not. In her case it came with unruly curls, a tendency to freckle, and a reputation for temper, which she felt was totally unfounded. She was neither voluptuous in figure nor flirtatious in manner, and although some might consider her passably attractive, no one had ever called her beautiful. Yet men looked at her, then they looked again. She found such assessments demeaning and intrusive. To armor herself against them, she had developed a directness of manner that most men found off-putting, which was precisely her intent. Obviously, Mr. Bodine did not.
He nudged her foot with the toe of his crusty boot. “You a manhater?”
“I’m learning,” she muttered. Men were betrayers and deceivers, violent faithless creatures, and there had never been a one in her life who had not let her down . . . a lesson learned by a father’s abandonment and a brother-in-law’s fist, and now reinforced by the inimitable Mr. Bodine, quite the nastiest of the lot.
“Maybe you’re mail order. Lots of men send off for wives.”
“Like ordering a farm implement? Lovely. But no.” Realizing the man would persist unless she satisfied his curiosity, she added, “I am an authoress and a milliner.”
“A miller? You make flour?”
“Hats.” Were they even speaking the same language? “I also write pamphlets on deportment for persons of quality. Shall I quote a few pages?”
He studied her hat, once a lovely creation of straw and satin, now a drooping dusty tangle of tattered ribbon and wilted plumes. “Hats like that?”
“Precisely.”
“So you’re a whore then.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Mrs. Thornton is a lady,” a voice cut in before she could gather her wits.
Glancing over, she met Mr. Ashford’s gaze and quickly looked away, heat rushing into her face. Stanley Ashford might not be as well turned out as a proper English gentleman, but he was clean, which set him apart from most of the Westerners she had met. That he had overheard and felt compelled to remark upon Bodine’s vulgar comment was mortifying.
“I think you should apologize.”
“But look what she’s wearing,” Bodine argued. “Good women wear poke bonnets. Only whores wear frilly hats like that.”
Jessica waited for Mr. Ashford to leap to her defense, but he was suddenly engrossed in the sharpness of the crease in
his trouser leg. Confidence waned. She eyed the hideous grosgrain bonnet mashed into the side of Maude’s face. “That can’t be true,” she argued weakly. “Only a—a—” She faltered, unable to say the word.
Mr. Ashford continued grooming his trousers. Bodine stared at her chest.
Preposterous. Throughout Northumberland her hats were considered the epitome of style. “I have never heard of such a thing.” Yet even as she spoke, memories rose in her mind—men leering from saloon doorways—calls and whistles as she walked by. All because of her hat?
“I shouldn’t worry, ma’am,” Ashford told her. “It’s a very pretty hat.”
“A downright doozy,” Bodine seconded.
Possibly it was the condescension in Ashford’s voice, or perhaps the smirk on Bodine’s tobacco-stained mouth, or the lowering realization that her lovely hat had drawn more attention than she had, but something within Jessica snapped. She rounded on Bodine. “Are you implying the sole provocation for your unsolicited attentions is some backwoods misinterpretation of the latest European fashions?”
“Huh?”
“Did you approach me because of my hat?” You leprous cretin.
“Well, yeah. I thought—”
“Pray, think no more, Mr. Bodine!” And with a flourish that sent hatpins flying, Jessica snatched the offending hat from her head and sailed it out the open coach window.
Stunned silence.
Then Bodine slapped his knee and guffawed. Melanie Kinderly stopped reading to gawk at her, obviously finding Jessica’s behavior even more titillating than her book. Thankfully, Maude slept through it all.
Mr. Ashford pursed his lips beneath his neat blond mustache. “This climate can be quite harsh, ma’am. I hope you don’t come to regret such a rash action.”
She already did. Heavens, what insane perversity had come over her?