Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  “I need cloth,” he said.

  She looked over and gasped when she saw the two-inch-wide sliver of wood stuck in Mr. Ashford’s side and the huge bruise darkening the left side of his face. Dear God, was he dead? Wilkins said something, but she could make no sense of it. Everything was suddenly off-kilter as if the world were slowly tilting.

  “Hell.” Wilkins’s hand closed over the back of her neck and shoved her head down until her forehead almost touched her knees. “Breathe.”

  She sucked in air. After a moment, the spinning slowed. As her mind steadied, she realized his hand was still there, a hot, heavy weight against her skin, his fingers so long they almost encircled her neck. She shrugged him away and slowly straightened.

  “No more fainting,” he said gruffly.

  “I do n-not faint.” Her tongue tripped over the words. “I have never done so, and I—” Her throat constricted when Wilkins ripped open Ashford’s vest. Blood was everywhere, soaking into Ashford’s shirt, caking in the creases of Wilkins’s hands. It smelled worse than the horses and left a sweet, metallic taste in the back of her throat. How could a man lose so much blood and live?

  “Get something for a bandage,” Wilkins ordered.

  What if he died? What if they all died?

  “Do it. Now!”

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Wh-What kind of cloth?”

  “Anything clean. And check the driver’s box for whiskey and a canteen.”

  Careful not to look at the dead horses, she retraced her steps to the front of the coach. In the driver’s box, more blood. Flies. Under the seat she found a canteen and a tin flask. As she climbed back to the ground, she chided herself for being such a coward. She had seen injuries before, even death. She had to pull herself together or she would be of little use to Wilkins and the others.

  “Mrs. Thornton, is that you?”

  Turning, Jessica saw Melanie limping toward her. She looked wretched, her skirts torn, blood from a dozen abrasions showing through a coating of dust. Absurdly, her prim bonnet was still pinned to a knot of hair halfway down her back. But at least she was alive and whole. “Are you injured?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m all right, but I’m worried about Mama. Her ankle’s swollen. It’s not bleeding, but she’s in terrible pain and I don’t know what to do.”

  Jessica blinked at her, feeling trapped in a slow-moving nightmare that seemed to go on without end. “Ashford is hurt,” she said in a hollow voice. “Wilkins will come when he can.”

  “Please,” Melanie begged, reaching for her arm.

  Jessica stepped back. “I can’t. He needs me.” She frowned, trying to think, then remembered. “I have to find cloth for a bandage,” she said and turned away.

  Melanie called after her, but Jessica shut her out and concentrated on the simple task of finding cloth for a bandage. She knew it was cowardly, but she didn’t want to think about the Kinderlys or Mr. Ashford or that crumpled body on the slope. She simply needed time. Soon she would feel stronger and be able to do more. Until then, she would do as she was told and let Wilkins take care of everything.

  When she returned with a shirt, two petticoats, and several men’s kerchiefs, she saw the piece of wood still protruded obscenely from Ashford’s body. Averting her eyes, she knelt beside Wilkins. “Will he live?”

  Wilkins shrugged, his mouth a grim line beneath his dark mustache. “Whiskey?”

  She held out the flask. He took it in fingers that glistened wet and red. “What about Mr. Phelps?” she asked.

  He worked the cork loose with his teeth and spit it aside. “He’s managing.”

  That meant the body on the slope was Bodine’s. She should have felt sad. Or relieved. Or something other than this terrible emptiness.

  Wilkins thrust the flask toward her. “Hold this.”

  She did. The metal was sticky with blood. Numbly, she watched Wilkins tear a petticoat into thin strips. “When I tell you,” he instructed as he tied the ends together to form one long band of cloth, “pour half the whiskey over his side, then the rest on a kerchief. Understand?”

  She nodded, her stomach quivering.

  “When I pull the stick out, there’ll be blood. As long as it’s not spurting, wait a few seconds, then pour. Ready?”

  The flask started to jump in her hand. She took a deep breath, then another, and another. Yet the harder she tried, the less air she seemed to draw into her lungs.

  “Stop that. You’ll pass out.”

  Why couldn’t she breathe?

  “Hell.” He jerked the flask from her grip, picked up one of the kerchiefs, and without warning, clamped the cloth over her mouth, cutting off her air. Frantic, she fought him, but he held her fast with his other arm around her shoulders, pinning her firmly back against his chest. “Breathe,” he ordered, cupping the cloth over her nose and mouth.

  She gasped, drew in the warmth of her own breath. Within moments her vision cleared and the whirling in her head slowed. When reason returned and she realized he was still holding her, she shoved his hand away and straightened.

  Setting the kerchief aside, he sat back on his heels, watching her. “Better?”

  She pressed a palm over her thundering heart and nodded, not yet trusting her voice. She wasn’t sure which terrified her more, being unable to breathe or having Wilkins grab her like that.

  “Then pick up the flask.” Turning back to Ashford, he gripped the stick. “Ready?” And before Jessica could respond, he yanked. A terrible sucking noise, then blood gushed in thick, dark rivulets down Ashford’s side and into the dirt. The smell was ghastly. “Pour.”

  She tried, but her hand shook so badly she wasn’t sure if any whiskey got into the wound. Apparently some did. Even unconscious, Ashford’s body jerked like a puppet on a string.

  “Now the rest over the cloth.”

  Again, she poured.

  “Press it against the hole. Hold it there while I wrap him.”

  She did. The cloth grew hot and wet against her palm. Feeling her stomach roll, she tried to send her mind to a kinder place where pain never intruded and death—

  “Let go.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Move your hand.”

  Snatching her hand back, she wiped it on her skirt. The red wouldn’t come off. Battling panic, she searched for her gloves. “Do you see them? My gloves? I know they’re here.” She felt hysteria build, then found the gloves in her skirt pocket. As soon as she pulled them on, she felt calmer, more in control.

  Wilkins tied off the wrappings, then wiped his hands on his shirt, leaving dark streaks on the dusty cloth. He sat for a moment, studying her. He must have sensed her alarm because his expression softened—just a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes, but enough to ease her fear. “You did all right, Your Ladyship.”

  “I am not a Lady,” she muttered, smoothing the tattered glove over her fingers. “I mean I am not entitled—that is—I am a lady, of course, but not with a capital ‘L’—oh, never mind.” She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing hard, trying to force strength into her wobbly arms. “Miss Thornton will do.”

  “Miss?”

  “Mrs. I meant Mrs., of course.” She stared down at her hands, feeling miserable and foolish and so disheartened in spirit she almost burst into tears.

  “Look at me.”

  She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She would start crying and she couldn’t bear that.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Wilkins reach out, then those same fingers that had bent a cup and tended a wound gently tilted her head up, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Do what I tell you and I’ll get you through this. Understand?”

  Currents jumped between them, moving from his fingertips to the tender skin beneath her jaw. For a moment she forgot to be afraid, to be wary of his touch, to armor herself against the pull of those intensely vibrant eyes.

  “I’ll keep you safe. That’s a promise.”

  She wanted so badly to believe him. But s
he had been lied to before.

  He must have read her doubt. With a look of impatience, he let his hand drop away and rose. “I’ve got to check on the old lady and her daughter.”

  As she watched him limp away, sunlight reflecting off the quartz-rich earth blinded her, inflaming the pulse beat in her temple. She closed her eyes. A sense of detachment stole over her, a drifting sensation so seductive she almost gave in to it. What would it matter if she drifted away forever? Who would care?

  Victoria.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Wilkins said he would keep them safe. For now, she would believe him. But if he was lying . . .

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, WHEN THE HEAT RISING OFF THE SUN-BAKED earth was at its worst and the sky was beginning to take on an orange cast, Brady realized Oran Phelps was dying. Something was busted inside him, and with each passing hour the pain grew.

  To his credit, Oran never said a word, but struggled diligently to stay on his feet and do what he could for the passengers in his care. He insisted on helping Brady stack rocks over Bodine’s body, then because the water barrel strapped to the coach had broken in the crash, he gathered what water they had, which consisted of Brady’s full canteen and Oran’s half-empty one. He even helped tend the old woman’s ankle, which was only sprained and not broken, although to hear her wailing, it was a fatal injury. But with the day starting to fade, Brady could see Phelps was wearing down. And he wasn’t the only one.

  He glanced over to where the Englishwoman struggled to prop that ball-busting umbrella over the railroader to keep the sun off his face. So far she’d handled herself well and he admired her for it. But studying her now, he could see she was lagging and he knew she was hurting. Not a crier or a complainer, which in his experience was an unusual thing in a woman, especially a woman like her. He just hoped she held true to that when he told her he was leaving.

  “The horse is pretty sore.” Oran’s voice was raspy with pain. “But he should get you to Jamison’s. Leave the saddle. Less weight.”

  Brady knelt beside him. He noted the tremor in the older man’s hands as he mashed mescal leaves on a rock with his gun butt.

  “I know with Ramirez out there, you got worries of your own.”

  Brady didn’t need reminders. Nor did he want Phelps worrying away what strength he had left. “I’ll tend this first, Oran. My word on it.”

  Phelps nodded. The gun slipped from his fingers. With a groan, he slumped back onto the ground. “Think I’ll rest a minute.”

  Brady drew his long knife from his boot and scraped up the mescal paste. After pulling a packet of jerky and a tin cup from his saddlebag, he picked up the fuller of the two canteens and walked toward the Englishwoman. He wondered how to impress on her the direness of their situation without scaring her. Five people—three injured—with no food and hardly any water, stranded in a canyon next to a dry arroyo. If it rained, they’d be caught in a flash flood. If it didn’t, they’d likely die from too little water and too much sun. Unless Sancho found them first.

  Brady forced that thought aside. But as soon as he did, another took its place. Unless Sancho went to the ranch instead. Sonofabitch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Startled, he looked down to find himself standing over the Englishwoman. She was staring up at him with that skittish look she seemed to favor whenever he was near. Adopting a bland expression, he squatted on his heels so they were at eye level, hoping that would put her at ease. He knew his size and manner could be intimidating, but he’d never used his strength against a woman, and it irritated him that she so clearly thought he would.

  Handing her the knife, he told her to spread some of the paste on a clean kerchief while he unwrapped Ashford’s bandage. He was relieved to note the wound wasn’t stinking and showed no sign of infection yet, but it was early. After he’d changed the bandage and retied the wrappings, she offered to put the rest of the paste on his arm. It wasn’t necessary—despite the blood, the scratches weren’t that deep.

  He let her do it anyway. He knew she didn’t like touching him and figured if she saw she could do it without coming to harm, she might lose some of her distrust. Plus, he liked watching her. Even sunburned and dirty, with that lumpy bruise on her temple and her face half hidden by a tangled mess of curls, she was easy on the eyes. She reminded him of one of those fancy Arabian horses—all pride and not much sense, but a heart that wouldn’t quit.

  She studied the cuts. “Did I do this?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up, her eyes showing confusion and concern. “If so, I am sorry. I was not myself.”

  Brady forced himself to look away before he drowned in those whiskey brown eyes. “It’s all right.” Apparently he hadn’t been himself either, but some bastard named John.

  She applied the paste in careful little dabs as if fearful she might hurt him, which was laughable, since she’d already damn near gelded him. But her kindness moved him, and as he watched her slim fingers slide over the dark roughness of his arm, he couldn’t help but react. And it wasn’t just gratitude he was feeling.

  When she’d finished basting and trussing his arm like a Christmas goose, he pulled a strip of jerky from the linen-wrapped packet and held it out. “This is dried meat. Chew it slow.”

  She held it between her thumb and forefinger, like it might come alive and bite her. “What kind of meat?”

  He picked the most likely. “Beef, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sure. Eat it.”

  She ate. When she swallowed the last of it, he gave her a quarter cup of water and told her to go slow. She didn’t, and a minute later puked it back up on a sage bush.

  He offered to help, but she waved him away, which was fine with him. Once the heaves stopped, she sank onto the ground beside him, her face so pale her freckles stood out like flecks of faded rust. “How humiliating. And how crass of you to watch.”

  Hell, with her pear-shaped butt up in the air that way, hiking her skirts to expose trim ankles and a gratifying portion of those long legs, how could he not look? Biting back a smile, he held out another strip of jerky.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “It wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

  “It would if there were two of you.”

  That took the pinch out of her mouth. He almost laughed. Did she think he couldn’t tell when a woman was breeding? He was a cattleman. He dealt with pregnant females all the time. “Take it.” He pushed it into her hand. “I doubt the railroader or Phelps will want their share.”

  While she took tiny bites and tiny sips, he explained that he would be leaving for the stage stop and she’d be on her own until he got back, which would hopefully be by morning. He warned her that once the sun set, it would get cold, and she would need to find extra clothes to keep everybody warm. He told her how to build a fire ring, and that mesquite wood burned hottest, and how important it was to keep the fire going to ward off scavengers coming in for the horses after dark. He added that he would leave her his repeater and some cartridges, but unless a big cat showed up, he doubted she’d have need of it.

  At some point she quit chewing to stare at him, and even though her face lost some of its color, she didn’t interrupt, which he took as a good sign.

  So he continued, explaining that since snakes sought warmth at night, before she went to sleep, she should wrap her skirts tight around her legs and cover her feet well. And finally, in an effort to soften the bleakness of their situation with a little humor, he cautioned her to sleep with her mouth closed lest she wake up chewing on something other than jerky, such as a scorpion or a lizard or even a hairy tarantula. He grinned to let her know he was joking and thought she seemed to be handling it all pretty well, when she suddenly jumped to her feet and started hitting him in the face.

  “You’re leaving?” she shrieked, going at him with both fists. “You blighter! You bloody bastard!”

  Brady was so astounded he took a couple of roundhouses before he managed to get to
his feet, grab hold of her wrists, and shove her to arm’s length. He waited until she played herself out, which didn’t take long, then eased her to the ground. He stepped back.

  Christamighty. He wiped blood from a cut on his lip, so rattled he didn’t know whether to hog-tie her or shoot her. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Yet as he watched her glaring up at him, teeth bared, that fiery temper a match to the riot of red curls haloing her face, he thought she was by far the damnedest, most confounding, excitable and exciting woman he’d ever come across.

  “I should have known not to trust you,” she snapped, rubbing at her wrists.

  He put some space between them, then hunkered on his heels so their heads were on the same level. “Why?” he asked calmly.

  “You said you would take care of us.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “By deserting us?”

  It bothered him the way she kept rubbing at her wrists, as if he had grabbed her too hard and hurt her, which he knew he hadn’t. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she fisted her hands in her lap.

  “I’m not deserting you.”

  “Deserting, leaving, abandoning. It’s all the same.” She shot him a look that could fray wire. “And something at which all men excel.”

  At that moment, as if a window into her mind had opened to him, Brady gained insight into the reason for her distrust. Some man—her father, husband, that bastard, John—had left her, and now she colored every man with the stain of that betrayal. Well, he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t carry the blame for another man’s mistake. He had enough of his own. “Look at me.”

  Her head snapped up, eyes crackling with fury.

  Leaning closer, he pinned her with his gaze and the force of his will, compelling her to see past her anger and fear to the truth. “I am not deserting you,” he said with quiet emphasis. “I’m going for help. There’s a difference.” He waited, forcing her to look away first.

  “Fine!” She pressed trembling fingers against her forehead. “Go then.”