Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  The friendship between the women grew rapidly. Hearing of Elena’s abuse had struck a chord within Jessica, and although they carefully avoided mention of either Jessica’s “lost” husband or Elena’s murderous brother, an invisible bond grew between them.

  Melanie helped with the sewing as well. She had a decided flair for design and was able to make Jessica’s altered dresses look quite fashionable. As they stitched, she kept them entertained with dramatic retellings of the dime novels she so fancied. Their chatter and laughter helped pass the hours away and ease the worries that never strayed far from Jessica’s mind.

  She had missed female companionship. Until John Crawford had come into their lives, she and Annie had been as close as sisters could be. Afterward, too . . . for a while. When Jessica insisted they live with her at Bickersham Hall after their marriage—it was much too large for one person, after all—Crawford had been so quick to agree she had wondered if such had been his intent all along. If so, she hadn’t minded; she’d just been grateful to have her sister beside her.

  But after the children came, things changed. At first Jessica thought Annie was simply preoccupied with her growing family, but gradually she became aware of the growing tension between her sister and Crawford. Always given to sulks, he grew impatient and overbearing, complaining bitterly of the lack of funds and tedium of country life. Annie tried desperately to placate him, but by the time their second child was born, he had all but moved to London.

  Jessica had been grateful for the respite from the unrelenting tension. But without Crawford, Annie had seemed to fade into a shadow of herself. He never asked her or the children to accompany him to Town, and as his visits home had grown more volatile and less frequent, Annie’s natural shyness had become fumbling uncertainty under his critical eye.

  And the debts had mounted.

  And that critical eye had turned to Jessica.

  And then the real brutality had begun.

  But that was behind her now, and Jessica refused to dwell on it or allow her worries to overshadow the joy in having new friends. She strove for a measure of serenity and calmness, hoping in some way that might communicate itself to the child growing within her and override the evil of the man who fathered it.

  She didn’t know how she would have managed without their visits. Surprisingly, at different times both of the younger Wilkins brothers stopped by—although Jessica wondered if they came to see her or the ladies visiting her.

  Hank Wilkins rarely spoke, and when he did, even if he addressed Jessica, his attention never wavered from Melanie. It was a bit unnerving. He was so quiet and so well masked by his full beard and shaggy hair, it was difficult to guess what he was thinking. He was certainly intelligent enough to carry on a conversation. The few times Jessica had found his gaze aimed at her, she had almost felt dissected by those dark, assessing eyes. Yet she never felt in danger. She sensed curiosity behind his fierce concentration. And loneliness. It was difficult not to respond to that hint of vulnerability in such a physically powerful man. Melanie must have felt it as well, because she flew to the rafters whenever he was near. Jessica liked him, too. Despite his size and shuttered demeanor, Hank Wilkins made one feel safe and protected, rather than threatened. He calmed her.

  Not so with the youngest brother. Jack Wilkins was outrageous, charming, so full of energy he was like a whirlwind through her mind. He and Elena didn’t converse, yet Jessica sensed strong currents between the two. Antipathy or attraction? She couldn’t decide. In many ways he was the opposite of Brady Wilkins. Although they were both tall, Jack was leaner. He was blond, while his brother was dark—volatile and undisciplined, while Brady was tautly controlled. There was no question who held the reins of the family, and no question who chaffed under that restraint. But they both shared that disarming smile, although Brady’s was rarer and for that reason more precious. Jessica wondered if they knew the effect it had on impressionable females. And pregnant spinsters.

  Brady, Hank, and Jack. It was too confusing to call them all “Mr. Wilkins,” and after a while, she gave up the pretense. She had fallen so far beyond the bounds of propriety—she was receiving visitors in her bedclothes, for heaven’s sake—what did it matter what she called them? Besides, the brothers seemed oblivious to proper decorum, or perhaps they didn’t remember her name; even the younger two followed Brady’s lead and simply called her “Your Ladyship.” It was disrespectful, improper, and familiar in the extreme.

  How refreshing.

  Three months. A terribly long time to have to rely on charity from this boisterous and outlandish family. But oddly, Jessica found she wasn’t that anxious to leave.

  “TRY THESE.”

  Brady looked up from a battered copy of The Cattleman’s Gazette to see Hank coming across the porch with a pair of worn boots in his hand.

  “You’ll have to double up on socks.” Dropping the boots beside Brady’s chair, he reached down to give Bullshot a scratch.

  Brady studied the broken-down leathers. “What’d you do? Drag them behind your horse?”

  Hank picked up the boots and started back the way he’d come.

  “Okay, okay.” Reaching out, Brady snagged the boots before Hank got out of reach. “I’ll take them. Christ.”

  With Hank and Bullshot watching, Brady gingerly worked his sore feet into the oversized boots. Because of the swelling, it was a tight fit, but he managed. After two weeks of sitting in his rocker, scanning the slopes with his eyeglass while Bullshot twitched in dreams and passed wind by his side, Brady had reached the limit of his patience. It was time he went after Sancho. He knew his brothers wouldn’t approve of him tearing off with no plan in mind and no idea where to find the bastard, but he was tired of sitting and doing nothing. So he wouldn’t tell them.

  He stood and took a few steps. It still hurt to walk but at least now he could ride. If he didn’t trip and fall on his face first. “Jesus, you got big feet,” he muttered.

  “Comes with the territory.”

  Brady limped down the porch and back, the hound trailing his heels.

  “Why you getting dressed up?” his brother asked when Brady plopped back down into the rocker and the hound settled once again at his feet.

  “I’m not getting dressed up.”

  Bending, Hank picked up a broken chair part. He studied it a moment, then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his penknife.

  “Just because I put on your beat-up old boots doesn’t mean I’m dressing up. Why would you think I’m dressing up?”

  After cutting off a sliver, Hank held up the stick and examined it, turning it this way and that. Apparently satisfied, he started another slice. “You shaved twice this week.”

  “So?” Brady eyed his brother’s bushy beard. “You want, I’ll teach you how.”

  Hank gave it some thought, then shook his head. “Wouldn’t be fair.”

  Brady frowned up at him.

  “You know how the ladies get when I clean up.” He flashed that astonishing grin that had women panting like race horses whenever he allowed them to see it. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your courting.”

  Courting? “Who said I was courting?”

  Using short strokes, Hank shaped the end of the stick into a sharp point.

  The hound stretched and yawned.

  Brady contemplated the sunset. It wasn’t as bright as it would be later in the season when the dust haze brought out the reds and oranges, and purple-tinted thunderheads crowded the peaks, but it was still a wondrous sight. “I’m not courting.”

  “Then all this fixing up is for Sancho?”

  Damn. “I didn’t say anything about Sancho. Did I say anything about Sancho?”

  Having put a point on one end of the stick, Hank flipped it and started on the other.

  The sun continued its downward slide. Reds faded to gold, and wispy clouds darkened to deep blue. “I know what you’re thinking,” Brady said after a while. “You’re thinking he’s out there
waiting, and if I go after him, I’ll be playing into his hands.”

  Hank looked at him.

  “You think I should stay put so he’ll have to come to me, don’t you?” Hank was right, of course. Brady knew it would be foolish to force an issue when patience might yield a better result. But the waiting was killing him. “Hell.” He sighed. “All right. One week, but that’s all.”

  Hank tossed the stick into the roses, then folded the penknife and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll leave you to your courting then.” Turning, he clomped down the steps and into the yard.

  “Damn that Hank,” Brady muttered to Bullshot as his brother disappeared into the barn. “He plays me like a lute every time.” With a sigh, he reached down to scratch Bullshot’s ear. “We’re a worthless pair, aren’t we?”

  “I’ll say.”

  Startled, he looked up to see Jack mounting the porch steps. Other than when he had introduced his brothers to Her Ladyship, Jack had been scarce since their run-in. Brady felt the distance between them grow wider every day and that saddened him. Jack had always been a hard dog to keep under the porch, and Brady knew one day he’d slip the leash and take off. But he regretted that it might happen when there were still hard feelings between them.

  “Bullshot’s been asking after you,” he said. “He’s missed you sorely.”

  Jack bent down to rub the hound’s belly. “Said that, did he?”

  “I think so. He coughed up something that sounded like ‘Jack,’ but it could have been a chicken feather.” He nodded toward the house. “Get the jug and sit a spell.”

  Jack retrieved the whiskey jug from the larder then returned to sit in the chair by Brady’s rocker. Ru and Tobias and Red came by. Brady asked how the tally was going and they told him it was going well, and unless something happened between now and fall, they should have a fine showing. They understood how important it was to have the best stock ready for the Army bid in the fall. If they won it, there would be bonuses and money for some of the improvements Brady had planned. If they didn’t, it would be another tough year. They’d have to cull the herds, drive what they could east to join the big cattle drives heading up the Chisholm Trail to Abilene, Kansas. But if they could hang on a few more years until the railroads came through, they’d be sending Wilkins beef all the way to Kansas City or Chicago. And once that happened, Brady knew he could start the horse and cattle breeding programs he’d dreamed about.

  But that was a long way off with a mountain of “ifs” in between. “How long these stage people staying, Boss?” Rufus elbowed the man beside him. “Toby here has his eye on the young one.”

  “Too long,” Brady muttered. He thought of the railroader recuperating upstairs. He didn’t trust him and hoped Doc would send him on his way soon. “The man from Overland said the Army was sending a Dougherty wagon and escort for her and her mother. Should be here in a few days.” Hopefully the railroader would be well enough to go with them.

  “Then how about the redhead?”

  Jack looked over, but Brady didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s breeding. Stay away from her.”

  He had avoided Her Ladyship for the last few days. Seeing her in his bed put ideas in his head that shouldn’t be there. He was a cattleman born and bred to run this ranch. He needed it like he needed food and water, needed the challenge of managing an eighty-eight-thousand-acre spread and keeping it safe while building something that would last long after he was gone. She didn’t fit into any of that.

  Yet sometimes, after the ranch bedded down for the night, and he was sitting on the porch in the still of the evening, with just the hound and the crickets and the “what-ifs” for company, thoughts of her would slide quietly across his mind like a gentle drift of smoke. He would picture her in his bed a few feet away, or remember something she said, or the way her mouth pinched when she was amused and trying not to show it, and the sharp reminder of all that was missing from his life and all he would never have would cut as deep as a well- honed blade.

  The three cowboys wandered off.

  Jack and Brady shared the jug and a companionable silence as the waning moon drifted across the night sky, leaving in its wake a trail of stars. Feeling mellow and relaxed and enjoying Jack’s company in a way he hadn’t in a long time, Brady said, “So what do you think of her?”

  “Who?”

  “The Pope’s second wife. Who do you think?”

  “Her Ladyship? I like her fine. Why you asking?”

  Wondering the same thing, Brady tried to make a joke of it. “I’m thinking of selling her to the Muscaleros and was trying to set a price.”

  “Not much. Indians don’t like uppity women.”

  “She is that.” Brady smiled. “She makes me laugh.”

  “I noticed.” A pause, then, “Are you drunk?”

  Brady ignored that and reached for the jug. “It’s tough, though. Not knowing who he is—if he’s out there somewhere—if she still has feelings for him. It’s got me tied in knots.”

  Another pause. “He who? I thought she was a widow.”

  “Hell, I thought so, too.”

  Jack started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You and Her Ladyship. Be like teaming a fancy carriage horse with a rented mule.”

  Brady didn’t like that analogy. A Shire warhorse maybe. Or a Friesen stallion. Definitely not a mule. Mules were impotent.

  “She and Elena seem to get along,” Jack said.

  Brady’s comfortable mood faded.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Brady looked over to meet his brother’s frown. All Jack had to do was open his eyes. The truth was right in front of him. But Jack had always been incapable of seeing past the obvious. As irritating as that could be sometimes, Brady often envied his brother’s ability to view life in such simple terms. Careful to keep his voice neutral, he asked, “Why should that bother me?”

  Jack looked away. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Brady.”

  “Well, you are pretty dumb.”

  “How can you do this to Elena? Nothing against Her Ladyship, but hell, Brady, all these years you and Elena—”

  “Jack, look at me.”

  When he did, Brady saw the confusion and hurt in his brother’s eyes. He was weary of it. “There is no me and Elena,” he said with quiet emphasis. “There never was and never will be. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  “What’s that mean exactly? Why would she still be here if not because of you?”

  Brady lifted his brows but said nothing. He watched Jack wrestle with it, hoping his brother could put aside his resentments and summon up the intellect to look beyond the surface and piece it all together. When it was clear he couldn’t, he sat back with a sigh. “Get off my porch. You’re too stupid to talk to.”

  Jack started to argue, but Brady waved him away. “You want answers, go to her. I’m done talking.” And signaling an end to it, he tipped his head back and pulled his hat over his eyes.

  Eight

  “IS SOMETHING WRONG?” JESSICA ASKED.

  Dr. O’Grady had finally returned to check on her, and she fully expected him to lift the impossible restrictions he had placed upon her. She felt fully recovered. In fact, she felt so robust, she was itching to tackle a thorough cleaning of this somewhat neglected room and any others in a similar condition. So why was he hesitating?

  O’Grady removed the stethoscope and folded it into his medicine satchel. He studied her with sharp interest. “Ever had heart problems?”

  “No.”

  “A high fever when you were still a lass?”

  “Nothing unusual. Why?”

  “Maybe a heart murmur?”

  “No. And why are you asking about my heart?”

  The doctor scratched thoughtfully at the stubble under his chin. “Sure, and it could be an echo. Or maybe . . .” Suddenly he grinned. “It could be twins.”

  O’Grady said more, but Jessica couldn’t hear him over
the buzzing in her head.

  Twins? Two babies? How could that be? Dizziness assailed her. Her chest felt odd. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the harder she worked at it, the worse it became.

  Suddenly a noxious odor exploded in her nose. “Easy, lass. Breathe easy.”

  Jessica shoved the bottle of smelling salts away. But once she brought her breathing under control, her mind started racing in all directions. “You could be wrong,” she argued. “If you were a military surgeon, you probably don’t know. How many babies were born on the battlefield?”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “It could be something I ate or—”

  “Is it a sniff of the bottle you’re wanting?”

  Jessica raised a hand. “No!”

  O’Grady recapped the vial and returned it to his satchel. “It’s not the end of the world, lass. Two wee babes—it’s a blessing, is what it is. How can you be thinking otherwise?”

  A blessing for anyone but her. Jessica felt the betraying sting of tears. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest to calm her racing heart. “How can I take care of two babies?” One was challenge enough. But two? “And why didn’t you tell me when you examined me before?”

  “I wasn’t sure then. I had to check my books.”

  Dear God. Was the man a complete incompetent? “You have delivered a baby before, haven’t you?” If he turned out to be a horse doctor, she would kill Brady Wilkins.

  “We’ll do fine, colleen. We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?” The doctor patted her shoulder, a useless platitude to an unmarried woman with no home and no means of support, who had just been given the blessed and terrifying news that she would give birth to not one, but two babies. And in less than three months.

  “In fact, you’re doing well enough to get out of bed. Short periods at first, then if all goes well, a little longer each day. How does that sound, lass?”

  It sounded like she had better find her brother George, and quickly.