by Warner, Kaki
Of course he didn’t. A man his size couldn’t sneak up on a fence post, especially carrying all that paraphernalia. She was definitely deranged.
While the two men discussed where to stow Wilkins’s gear, she struggled to calm her breathing, infuriated that she had allowed emotion to overcome reason. Again. Why, after three months and thousands of miles, was Crawford still in her head, ready to pounce? Would she never be rid of him?
By the time Phelps had climbed topside to load Wilkins’s belongings, she had regained a measure of control. Stepping around Brady Wilkins, she moved along the off side of the coach. “While you’re up there, Mr. Phelps, would you please retrieve my bandbox?” Rising on tiptoe, she tapped a half-buried hatbox with the tip of her parasol. “That one, please.” Stepping back, she hooked the parasol over her forearm and straightened her cape. “I would be most grateful.”
“Aw, hell,” Phelps muttered. “Can’t it wait?”
“I regret it cannot.”
“It’ll take me an hour to unpack and repack.”
“Surely not.”
“Aw, hell.”
With Wilkins’s help, it took less than five minutes. Gratified to have the ordeal over and anxious to get out of the sun, she pulled two Indian head coppers from her reticule. She handed one to the driver. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Phelps.”
He stared blankly at the coin in his palm. “What’s this?”
“A token of my appreciation.” Steeling herself, she turned to Wilkins. “And thank you for your help as well.” She extended the second coin.
His big hands started up.
She almost flinched but caught herself. She even managed to keep her hand steady.
But instead of accepting the coin, he folded his arms across his chest. “No.”
“You won’t accept my offering?”
“No.”
She had no response to such blatant rudeness. Nor was she inclined to stand bareheaded in this lung-searing heat and allow herself to be drawn into some tiresome game of insistence-and-refusal. Irritation overcoming fear, she grabbed Wilkins’s hand and slapped the coin onto his callused palm. “Accept it with my gratitude. I insist.”
His magnificent eyes narrowed.
But before he could voice objections, she snatched up the hatbox and marched around to the door of the coach. Men. Rot them all.
The other passengers had already taken their seats—except for Bodine, who stomped angrily toward the front of the coach. Apparently his digestive indiscretions had resulted in his banishment to the driver’s box. Relieved, she climbed aboard.
Even with Bodine gone, the air was ghastly. Breathing through her mouth, she removed from the bandbox a simple straw bonnet with lilac rosettes and a white silk scarf. After securing it with a fluffy bow, she set the empty box on the floor as a brace for her feet, then sat back, hoping they would get under way soon and force fresh air into the stifling coach.
That prickle again, like fingertips brushing along her neck. She looked over to see Brady Wilkins in the doorway, frowning at the hatbox. “What the hell is that doing there?”
“I put it there.” Mindful of the other passengers, she leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Can you possibly speak three sentences without cursing?”
“Where am I supposed to put my feet?”
“In a stable, perhaps?” She sat back, and meeting his glare with a gracious smile, she added, “However, if the hatbox is such a bother, I am sure the others will be delighted to wait in this stultifying heat while you and Mr. Phelps—”
“What’s in it?”
“At the moment, nothing, but—”
He yanked the box from beneath her feet and threw it out the door. Then before she could muster a thought, the coach rocked as he climbed aboard.
“Watch where you step.” Maude jerked her skirts aside as he rooted around, knees and elbows wreaking havoc in the confined space. Finally he plopped down beside Ashford and across from Jessica, his spread knees imprisoning her skirts, his big feet taking up most of the floor space. With a deep sigh, he tipped his head back, his hat forward, and closed his eyes. By the time the coach hit its rhythm, he was snoring. It was quite a bit longer before Jessica could relax enough to unclasp her hands and take a full breath.
Brady Wilkins was nothing like Mr. Bodine. He was much, much worse.
As her nerves settled, exhaustion set in. She tried to doze, but the swaying of the coach and the movements of the baby upset her stomach, so she gave up.
The baby. She. Victoria. It fit.
Smiling, Jessica closed her eyes and traced her fingertips over her abdomen. Was it larger than yesterday? Flattening her palms against her body, she shaped the roundness. Definitely bigger. Firmer. Despite the concealing cape and being long in the waist, she wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer.
“You still don’t have it right.”
Her eyes flew open.
Brady Wilkins watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His gaze dropped to the fingers splayed across her abdomen.
She yanked her hands away, heat rushing into her face. Had he guessed her condition? Judging by his speculative look, he had.
“I didn’t curse. This time I used profanity.”
The words were slow to penetrate. When they did, she stiffened. Hoping to discourage further conversation, she looked away, wondering why she had ever said anything in the first place.
“Cursing would be like ‘sonofabi—’ ”
“Don’t.” She whipped her head around. “Not another word.”
“Just figured before you go correcting people, you ought to get it right.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He raised his brows.
She gave up. Sometimes maintaining proper decorum was simply too difficult. With a weary sigh, she sank against the backrest. “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.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, fearing that would only encourage him. How tedious she had become—spouting quotes from her pamphlets, dressing down strangers—she could scarcely stand her own company; no wonder he found her so ridiculous. “I’m delighted to be able to entertain you,” she said dryly.
“I’m delighted to be entertained.” 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 and gently pry open her clenched fist. 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. She could see gray sprinkles in the dark stubble of his beard, a pale scar running through one dark eyebrow, a bruise forming under the new cut on his cheek. 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.
Just that.
Yet it changed his entire face. The whiteness of such lovely teeth against his black mustache and sun-browned skin was contrast enough, but the transformation from scowl to rakish grin was astonishing. Boggling.
Oh my. Dimples, too.
Releasing her hand, he sat back, pulled his hat over his forehead, and closed his eyes.
She let out air in a rush, only then realizing she had been holding it. Blasphemy with a dimpled smile—threats spoken in a velvet voice—eyes that changed color with his mood. Was anything about Brady Wilkins what it seemed?
She repressed a shiver of . . . something. Thank heavens he was riding only as far as Val Rosa. In a few more hours, she would be rid of him altogether.
As the afternoon wore on, heat built. Eve
n with the shade down, dust kicked up by the horses sifted through every crack to settle in the damp creases of Jessica’s neck and wrists, turning perspiration into mud. Her throat was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
The road grew steeper, tilting the coach and pinning her against the backrest. Wilkins, riding backward against the slant, slouched lower and lower as he napped, his long legs flopping against her skirts with every bump, those oversized feet taking up most of the narrow aisle. She wondered what he would do if she stomped one but lacked the courage to find out.
The coach slowed to a crawl. Above the rattle of wheels, she heard Phelps urging the horses on. Lifting the shade, she saw that the ground beyond her window dropped sharply away in a long, rock-strewn slope that ended in a treeless canyon far below.
“Will you be stopping in Val Rosa, Mrs. Thornton?”
Letting the shade drop, she turned to Mr. Ashford. As she did, she saw that although he hadn’t moved, Wilkins was awake and watching her. “No, I shall be continuing on to Socorro.”
“Perhaps that’s where I’ve seen you,” Ashford continued. “Although I’m sure we’ve never met, you seem familiar. Have you been there before?”
Before she could answer, Maude leaned forward to peer past Melanie. “Socorro is Indian country. Dreadful place. Is that where your husband is, Mrs. Thornton?”
Jessica looked down at her hands. “No. My brother. My husband is dead.”
“A pity. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She did mind, but knew if she didn’t answer, it would only invite vulgar speculation. “A hunting accident.” That seemed the simplest. Less complicated than disease or drowning, and certainly less dramatic than murder. Or being bitten by a rattlesnake, or one of those giant Gila monster lizards. Or being scalped by natives, or burned to death in a stagecoach. The West offered so many options.
“He was shot? Oh, how tragic.” Leave it to Melanie to dramatize the simple.
Jessica smoothed a pleat on her skirt. “Not shot . . . precisely. He was on his way home and fell.” It sounded weak, even to her own ear. She was such a wretched liar.
Ashford joined the interrogation. “Fell, how?”
She cleared her throat. “Actually, it was his horse that fell. Slipped. On ice. It was snowing, you see, and when he jumped a hedgerow, he fell and hit his head. My husband, not the horse. Although the horse fell, too, of course.” She knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop herself. She hated lying, hated the reason for the lie, hated the way they were all staring at her. Even Wilkins. Especially Wilkins, with his knowing little smirk.
“What was he hunting?” Ashford asked.
Mercy’s sake, what difference does it make? “Grouse, I think.”
“In winter?” Maude frowned. “Surely he wasn’t poaching?”
“Certainly not. My husband would never do anything unlawful.” Now she was defending a man who never existed; her perversity knew no bounds. “It was August, I think. Perhaps September. I try not to think about it.”
“Odd time to snow,” Maude muttered as she sat back.
Too late Jessica realized her mistake. If her husband had died eight months ago, she should be much further along in her confinement. Unless the baby wasn’t her husband’s. Blast. If she was to continue this fabrication, she really must perfect her lying. Luckily no one knew she was pregnant or that her timing was off.
No one except Wilkins. She recognized that speculative look in those hard blue eyes. Apparently the dolt could count. No doubt he thought her wanton. Or a liar. Or both. Not that she cared. To prove it, she hiked her chin and returned his smirk, refusing to let him see her shame.
His mustache twitched. For a moment she feared he might say something, then thankfully, Mr. Ashford drew his attention. “Didn’t I hear Cook mention you had a ranch in this area?” he asked him. “Rose-something?”
With one long big-knuckled finger, Wilkins pushed back his hat and turned to study the man beside him. “RosaRoja,” he finally said in that husky voice.
“Ah yes. The Red Rose Ranch, named for the roses planted by the previous owners, the Ramirez family, I think it was.” Ashford brushed dust from his sleeve. “I hear it’s quite a spread. Part of an old grant sold for back taxes after the Mexican war. Pennies on the dollar, I heard.”
Wilkins didn’t respond. But that coiled energy was back.
Ashford seemed oblivious. “I do advance work for the Texas and Pacific,” he explained. “Banking, labor—”
“Right-of-ways?”
“That, too.” He didn’t appear to notice the chill in Wilkins’s voice. “Hard country,” he went on, nodding toward the window and the rocky slope rising on his side of the coach. “Frostbite in winter, heatstroke in summer. Unless you have water, of course. Good water is worth its weight in gold out here. Especially to a railroad.”
“Or a cattleman.” Wilkins’s unblinking gaze never wavered.
“Or a cattleman,” Ashford agreed. “Ever think of selling out?”
Before Wilkins could answer, something under their feet snapped with a crack as loud as a gunshot. The coach lurched to the left. Ashford fell into Melanie. Maude screamed. Above the shriek of metal on stone, Phelps shouted in panic. “Jump clear! Jump clear!”
The coach tipped up, then started over.
Jessica crashed against the door. Cursing, Wilkins threw out an arm to keep from falling on top of her, then yanked her clear as the coach slammed onto its side. The door exploded in splintered wood. Dust billowed in. Screams rose above the squeal of horses and the crack of breaking wood as the coach started to roll.
Jessica felt herself falling. Rough hands caught her. A flash of bright aqua eyes, then the next instant she was windmilling through sunlight and empty air.
The coach thundered past.
She hit hard on her side and began to slide down the slope on loose rock. She grabbed at a passing bush, felt her glove rip as branches tore through her fingers. Stones pelted her back. Dust filled her nose. In a roar of cascading rock, she slipped faster and faster.
A hand grabbed her arm, stopping her downward slide with a yank that sent a shock of pain through her shoulder. She clung to it, fighting for air as stones clattered past. The grip shifted and suddenly a hard arm clamped so tightly around her ribcage she couldn’t draw in air.
Time spiraled backward and fear exploded.
“Don’t!” She bucked, legs kicking. “John, no!”
His grip tightened as they teetered. “Don’t fight me or we’ll both go down!” he shouted in a voice that wasn’t his.
In mindless terror she clawed at his arm, ripping through cloth, digging deep with her nails. “John, stop! Let me go!”
A rock slammed into her head.
A burst of light and pain.
Then blackness sucked her down.
Three
PAIN CAME AT HER FROM ALL SIDES—HER BACK, HER SHOULDER. A pulse hammered inside her head. Sharp rocks dug into her back, and the ground beneath her was so hot it burned into her skin.
Then she felt hands moving across her body.
With a strangled cry, she tried to roll away, but the hands pushed her back down.
“Hold still. You’re safe. You’re all right.”
Squinting against the sun, she saw a dark, blurry shape looming over her. Wilkins. What was he doing? Why was he touching her? She felt his fingers move through her hair and flinched when they touched a tender spot beside her left ear.
“Just a bump. Move your arms and legs.”
She did, but it hurt. Bruised and battered but nothing broken. She struggled up on one elbow, then hung there as tiny suns collided behind her eyes.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.
Pain knifed through her shoulder as she lifted her head. Fifty feet away was a dark mound. Beyond it, the coach lay on its side like a giant wounded beast, spilling clothing and luggage across the ground like entrails. She remembered the coa
ch falling. Someone grabbing her. She looked down, saw blood on her dress, and air rushed from her lungs. “No . . . oh no . . .”
“It’s mine. You’re all right.”
Befuddled, she looked over, saw a bloodstained rag tied around his forearm, and sagged in relief. Not the baby. Not Victoria.
Wilkins rose. “Can you stand?”
“I—I’ll try.”
He bent toward her, his broad hand reaching out to offer help.
She shrankback. “No. I can do it.” She knew it was rude, but at the moment she couldn’t bear to be touched. “Just—just give me a moment.”
He straightened. “Don’t take too long. I need help.”
As she watched him limp toward the coach, she realized the dark mound beside it was a dead horse. Behind it lay another. What of the passengers? With painful slowness, she turned to study the long slope behind her. Halfway down were two more horses, one motionless, the other frantically fighting the traces. A man—Phelps?—worked at the leathers to cut it free. Below them, luggage and clothing littered the slope in bright splashes of color, and near the bottom, thrown across the rocks like a discarded rag doll, lay the single twisted form of a man.
Swallowing hard, she looked away.
“Over here,” Wilkins called, bent over another still form beside the coach.
Untangling her legs from her tattered skirts, she struggled to her feet. Dizziness swept over her. Without warning, bile surged up her throat. She bent, heaves wracking her body.
When the nausea passed, she straightened, spots dancing behind her eyes. She took a shaky step and almost tripped on the tattered hem of her cape. Loosening the ties, she let it fall. Her hat was gone. Her gloves were shredded, but habit and principle wouldn’t allow her to discard them, so she tucked them into her skirt pocket. On legs as weak as warm pudding, she worked her way toward Wilkins.
As she passed the first horse, it stared blindly up at her, flat-edged teeth bared in a frozen grimace. A fly darted in and out of its nostril. The second horse was also dead, its forehead caved in, brains matting the dark fur like clabbered milk. The stench of blood made her stomach reel. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she forced herself to keep moving. When she finally slumped to the ground beside Wilkins, she was so dizzy she could scarce hold up her head.