Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  She gaped up at him, saw his righteous indignation, and resistance died. Strength left her. Defeated and overwhelmed, she did what she swore no man would ever make her do again—she dropped her head into her hands and wept.

  “Aw, hell.”

  Dimly she heard movement, voices, a door opening and closing. Then the bed sagged as someone sat beside her. She hoped it was the doctor. If she was going to shame herself with this maudlin behavior, she would prefer that he, rather than Brady Wilkins, be witness to it. Yet she wasn’t surprised when she peeked through her fingers to find that very man studying her.

  “Go away,” she mumbled, humiliated by her own weakness. She, who never cried, lay sprawled in some strange man’s bed, sniveling like a puling babe. It was disgusting.

  “Then quit crying. Here.” He stuffed a wad of cloth into her hand.

  His utter lack of sympathy actually helped. After she mopped up with what appeared to be a faded man’s neckerchief, she fluffed the pillow, carefully arranged the counterpane so that it covered her from toe to chin, then leaned back against the headboard and waited for him to leave.

  Which, of course, he didn’t.

  Uneasy under his intense gaze, and unable to find a plausible excuse for her mawkish display, she ignored it altogether. “Will you truly be crippled?”

  One corner of his mustache quirked up. “A slight exaggeration.” He waved a big hand in a vague gesture that seemed to encompass herself, the damp kerchief in her hand, the world in general. “Are you done now?”

  Condescending dolt. “If you are referring to my regrettable bout of self-pity, then yes, I am quite done.” She dabbed one last time at her puffy eyes then, with utmost care, folded the cloth and placed it on the bedside table. “Thank you so much for asking.”

  He missed her sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “Will you do what Doc says?”

  Three months. Heaven help her. She would be an eggplant ripe for the vegetable bin after a single week. But if the doctor felt that would keep her baby safe, she would manage. Without Victoria, she would have little reason to go on. What would be the meaning of it? “Of course.”

  “Good.” Wilkins rose. He hitched up trousers dangerously close to slipping off his lean hips, then with the smug look of a man convinced he had efficiently handled yet another crisis involving an unbalanced female, he said, “We’ll think of something to keep you busy. Maybe mending. How does that sound?”

  “Titillating. You will wash the items first?” She gave his rumpled attire a pointed look.

  He ignored that, too, and opening the door, yelled for Doc.

  Dr. O’Grady had one simple rule: She was not allowed on her feet for any reason whatsoever for at least two weeks. Other than a daily sponging, she was forbidden to bathe and must take all her meals in bed. When he returned in a fortnight to check on her, if she showed improvement, she might be allowed to sit in a chair for short periods of time. She absolutely would not be traveling by carriage, coach, horse, or foot to Socorro until after her confinement. In fact, she couldn’t even walk as far as the indoor water closet. In other words, for the next three months she was a virtual prisoner in Mr. Wilkins’s home—in his room, in fact.

  Meanwhile, Consuelo would handle the nursing chores and see to Jessica’s needs. Doc thought they would get along just dandy.

  The absolute fifth ring of hell.

  Seven

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS JESSICA SLEPT, ROUSING ONLY TO EAT, swallow copious amounts of water, and use the chamber pot. Thankfully only Consuelo was witness to her complete helplessness. The woman’s giving spirit made the intolerable tolerable, but since she spoke such limited English, she did little to ease the feeling of isolation that seemed to build with each day.

  By midweek, Jessica felt rested enough to count the blisters that had crusted across her nose and forehead from overexposure to the sun. Such had never been a problem at home, where the sun only occasionally came out of the mist, and when it did, ladies always wore hats. But who would confuse her with a lady? With her tangled hair, spotty complexion, and swollen temple, she looked as if she might be quite at home swinging with Esmeralda from the bell tower ropes of Notre Dame de Paris.

  “You up?” Brady Wilkins stuck his head in the door.

  “No.”

  He entered anyway. Under his arm was a parcel. “The stage office found this at the wreck. Is it yours?” Removing the burlap wrapping, he held it out.

  Jessica bolted upright. “You found it!” Taking it reverently from his hands, she opened the latch with trembling fingers, fearing what she might find.

  Nestled in a bed of straw were two saucers and two fluted china cups, each decorated with tiny rosebuds and twining ivy. Not a single crack or chip. Even the seal on the caddy of India tea was unbroken.

  Tears burned in her eyes. “Great-Grandmother’s china. I thought it was lost.”

  “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  Blinking hard, she gave him a weak smile. “I might.”

  “Then I’m leaving.”

  As he disappeared out the door, she called after him. “Would you ask Consuelo to bring hot water when she has a moment?”

  He muttered something she didn’t catch.

  Great-Grandmother’s china. Smiling and crying at the same time, she ran her palms over the worn wooden box. This was her link to home. To the women who had gone before her, and to all she had left behind. It was like having a part of her soul back.

  “Thank you,” she yelled, finally remembering her manners. Then she laughed out loud when she realized how ludicrous that was. What manners? Yelling from room to room, receiving men in her bedroom while she lay abed in a state of undress—Annie would faint to see her now.

  DURING ONE OF HER MANY NAPS, SOMEONE—DOUBTLESS CONSUELO—removed Brady Wilkins’s belongings and replaced them with her own. It was a comfort to see her own brush on the bureau, her small tintype of Annie and the children on her night table, and her own clothing on the peg behind the door.

  It was a busy household, echoing with the sounds of Consuelo’s musical chatter, deep masculine voices, heavy footfalls, and frequently, a distant tinkling bell. She knew that outside her window was a porch. And a very vocal dog. Consuelo pinned a blanket drape over the window opening, which gave some privacy but didn’t muffle sound.

  Jessica soon realized the porch was a gathering place. She often heard men’s voices out there and every now and then a woman’s soft laugh—not Consuelo’s. And sometimes, long after the house had settled for the night, she heard a slow rhythmic creak as if someone rocked in a swing or a rocking chair not far from her window. It was a comforting sound and reminded her of evenings at home when Mama sat in her rocker by the fire, working on a bit of mending or reading aloud from one of the few letters Papa sent during his long absences.

  Intuition told her it was Brady Wilkins out there. She could feel his presence, that faint but unmistakable change in the air whenever he was near. It mystified and intrigued her, and when she awoke sweating and terrified from dreams of John Crawford, it comforted her.

  As her strength returned, her sense of isolation increased. Other than a brief trip to dump an armful of mending on her bed, Brady Wilkins kept his distance. Luckily Melanie managed to escape her mother’s demands and made frequent visits and even brought some of her dime novels for Jessica to read. The girl was in a dither of excitement. Not only was she living out one of her True West Adventures, complete with lurking desperadoes, lusty ranch hands, and a damsel—namely herself—in distress, but she had also developed entendres for all three Wilkins brothers. At the moment, the middle brother, Hank, held a slight lead in her affections.

  “Today I am having a bath,” Jessica announced on the twelfth day of her confinement when Consuelo brought in hot water for her morning tea.

  Apparently Consuelo understood English better than she spoke it, because she deduced immediately what Jessica wanted and launched into a garbled explanation of why she couldn�
��t have it. From what Jessica could discern, there was no hipbath on the lower floor and all the washtubs were currently being used to dip calves infested with ticks and lice. But surely she’d heard wrong.

  She finally had to settle for a bed bath and an oatmeal dusting for her hair. Not much, but some improvement, and just in time, for that afternoon the Wilkins brothers descended.

  She had just finished plaiting her hair into a thick braid when she heard an ominous tromping in the hall. A loud warning knock, then the door swung open to reveal three huge figures crowding the hallway. Forefront was Brady Wilkins. He leaned in, gave her a quick once-over, then motioned the others forward. “She’s dressed.”

  “Damn,” a voice muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

  She snatched the covers to her chin as Brady Wilkins stepped inside followed by the other two men. “These are my brothers.” He nodded toward a young, sandy-haired man nearly as tall as himself but leaner, and another who was one of the largest men Jessica had ever seen, and possibly the hairiest, his features nearly hidden beneath a mop of dark brown hair and an untrimmed beard.

  She forced a smile. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

  The younger brother stepped forward, whipped off his hat, and bowed with a flourish. “Andrew Jackson Wilkins, the pick of the litter, ma’am, and pleased to meet you, too.” He elbowed the giant in the stomach. “This here’s Patrick Henry Wilkins—Hank. I’d ask him to make his bows, but with all that hair I’m not sure which way he’s facing, and I wouldn’t want him to do something unmannerly or improper. Brady said you had a keen interest in such things. He also said you’d been having a hard time of it, but it’s clear he was lying and hoping to keep you all to himself, because if I may say so, ma’am, you’re looking as pretty as a speckled pup. By the way, you can call me Jack. And as often as you’d like.” He gave her a wink.

  Brady Wilkins rolled his eyes.

  Hank Wilkins muttered something and left the room.

  Jack Wilkins watched him go, then turned back to Jessica with a grin that was almost as arresting as that of his older brother. “He means well, our Hank. Not much of a talker, though. At least to humans.” He started toward the chair.

  Brady yanked him back. “She needs her rest.”

  With a see-what-I-mean look to Jessica, Jack headed out the door. As he passed his older brother, she heard him mutter, “You’re right. She does talk funny. Nice pair, though.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, but judging by the flush inching up Brady Wilkins’s neck, it was obviously something untoward. Dimples and blushes. Amazing.

  He stepped into the hall, stopped, and swung back. “Do you want me to have Sheriff Rikker contact the sheriff in Socorro? See if he knows anything about your brother?”

  “Would you?”

  “What’s his name?

  “George. George Adrian Thornton.”

  He looked puzzled. “I thought he was your brother.”

  Too late Jessica realized her mistake. If she was a widow and George was her brother, how could they carry the same surname? “My brother-in-law .” Even worse. She couldn’t live with a man who wasn’t blood kin. She was hopeless at lying.

  Apparently he came to the same realization. His eyes grew as cold as two chips of ice. “That dog won’t hunt. Let’s try again, and this time the truth. Who’s in Socorro?”

  She looked away. “I told you. My brother.” At least that part was true.

  “And who’s John?”

  Her gaze flew to his. How did he know about John Crawford? What had she said? And when? Her throat ached with the need to blurt out the truth. But the truth was such an ugly thing—too ugly to expose to the judgments of others—too ugly even to share with her sister.

  Leaning one shoulder against the open doorjamb, Brady Wilkins crossed his arms over his chest. “There was never any husband, was there?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  She could tell by the subtle shift in his expression that he was drawing conclusions, unwelcome conclusions, the same conclusions most people would draw—that she was wanton, had a lover or perhaps several lovers. The idea sickened her. But before she could even attempt to explain, a voice drifted down the hallway.

  “Querido.”

  A soft, musical voice with a Spanish accent. The woman from the porch.

  Wilkins turned. The change in his expression was immediate. Reaching out, he looped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her into the doorway. “Your Ladyship, this is Elena,” he said, smiling down at the woman.

  Jessica could only stare. Black up-tilted eyes, a flawless heart-shaped face, a smile that rivaled that of Brady Wilkins. She was easily the most beautiful woman Jessica had ever seen. No wonder he looked at her that way. Ignoring an odd twist in her chest, she smiled back—and somehow managed to keep her surprise from showing when the woman moved into the room. She was terribly crippled, and it was apparent in every halting step that she walked with pain.

  “Brady teases, yes? You are called ‘Your Ladyship’?”

  Jessica recovered enough to glare at the dolt hovering in the doorway. “Of course not.” She held out her hand. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Thornton.”

  The woman took her hand in hers. “I am so happy to meet you, Jessica. And how nice it will be to have another woman at the rancho.”

  Her smile was so welcoming, her beautiful eyes so kind, Jessica felt an immediate liking for this lovely woman. “You live here, too?” she asked, delighted at the prospect of having someone new to talk to who might help ease the boredom that chaffed more each day.

  “¿Aquí en el rancho? Sí. All my life. But not at the main house.” Elena released Jessica’s hand and sank down onto the foot of the bed. She aimed a scolding look at Brady Wilkins. “But for now, Brady insists. He is very bossy. He thinks to manage everyone. You agree?”

  “I definitely agree.”

  The man under discussion smirked.

  Elena motioned Wilkins toward the rope-strung chair in the corner. “Sit, querido. With your poor feet, you have nothing better to do, yes?”

  He seemed reluctant until Elena gave him a look of such familiarity, Jessica felt like an intruder. It was obvious they shared something special, something intimate and rare.

  As he positioned the chair so he could prop his injured feet on the windowsill, Elena leaned toward Jessica. In a whisper loud enough for Wilkins to hear, she said, “Make him stay for a long visit. He is much underfoot, and with the vieja upstairs making her demands, Consuelo and I are too busy to entertain him.”

  Wilkins snorted.

  “And you, querido,” she said, turning her attention to him, “be nice to your guest.” She added something in rapid Spanish that Jessica didn’t understand.

  Apparently Wilkins did, because he blushed. Again. Another miracle for the archbishop.

  “And now I must help Consuelo.” With one hand on the footboard, Elena awkwardly pushed to her feet. “I will come tomorrow, sí?” she said to Jessica.

  “I would like that very much.”

  After Elena left, Jessica glanced at Wilkins. He was staring out the window, his elbow propped on the armrest of the chair, his fist braced at his jaw. He seemed miles away.

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  He sighed and let his arm drop to extend past the end of the armrest. “Yes, she is. The image of her mother, the fabled Rose of RosaRoja.” It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  His sleeve was rolled at his elbow, and when she saw the half-healed gouges on his forearm, she suddenly remembered how he’d gotten them. It embarrassed her that she had been so out of control, that she had felt so afraid whenever he was near. Yet now, when she was more helpless than she’d ever been, she wasn’t frightened at all.

  Then his words clicked in her mind. “Are you saying Elena is related to the family that lived here before? To that murderer, Sancho Ramirez?”

  “His sister.”

  “I don’t understand. If
his sister is able to put the feud aside, why can’t he?”

  “He’s crazy, that’s why. Always has been.”

  “Is he a threat to her?”

  Wilkins took so long to answer, she thought he intended to ignore the question. Finally, he said, “Elena was six years old the first time I saw her.” He continued to stare out the window as he spoke, his gaze distant, his voice flat. “She was running across the courtyard, crying. Sancho was chasing after her. He had a braided rawhide whip in his hand and was swinging it at her legs. Every time he drew blood, he laughed.” Wilkins turned toward her then, and Jessica saw that same fury in his face she had glimpsed at the stage stop. “So yes, he’s a threat to her.”

  “Was there no one to protect her?”

  “Maria tried, but Sancho threatened her, too. Her father did nothing. I took the whip away.”

  Jessica clenched her hands on the counterpane. “How could her father allow such a thing?”

  “Allow it? Hell, he fostered it.” Wilkins turned his gaze back to the window, his expression grim. “The Don collected song birds. Little bright-colored birds the mestizos brought up from Mexico. He thought they sang better without distractions, so he blinded them. I think he enjoyed doing it. He did the same with Indio and Apache slaves who tried to run . . . before he turned them over to Sancho to work on. He made Elena and her mother watch. A reminder, I think, of what would happen if they thought to escape.”

  Jessica was so shocked she couldn’t find words to express it.

  “Like father, like son, they say.”

  Horrified, she stared down at her abdomen, wondering if that was true. If her baby was a son, would he be like Crawford? Would she see her rapist in the face of her child?

  That thought haunted her as the days passed and her body expanded. She tried to keep it at bay by staying as busy as her condition allowed, sewing until her fingers felt raw and her brain was numb, letting out seams to accommodate her ballooning girth and cutting down her oldest petticoats to make napkins and night sacks for Victoria. Thank goodness Elena often came by to ply her needle and keep her company.