Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

DR. O’GRADY SEEMED TO HAVE LITTLE REGARD FOR THE PRIVACY of his patients. Within minutes of his leaving, women descended like a flock of chattering birds—Elena, Consuelo, Melanie, and an older Negro woman Elena introduced as Buck’s wife, Iantha. Apparently twins were rare enough to cause a great deal of excitement.

  As the ladies prattled on about babies and what they needed and how they could get it all together, the mother-to-be stared numbly into the tarnished mirror above the bureau as she brushed out her hair, and tried to hide her terror behind a vacuous smile.

  Twins. What would she do if she couldn’t find George?

  “Will you eat, Jessica?” Elena set a plate of food on the bureau.

  Jessica looked at the thinly sliced chicken, early peas, and buttery mashed potatoes, and almost cast up her accounts. “Perhaps later.”

  “Do not worry, mi amiga.” Elena patted her shoulder. “God sent you to us, and we will do all that we can to help you. But you must eat and make those babies strong.”

  Jessica smiled weakly. What choice did she have but to put herself and her babies in the care of these generous people and Dr. O’Grady? After months of flight, she was finally run to ground. All she could do now was trust in God and the kindness of strangers. A humbling thought, one that reinforced what she had learned during that ordeal on the desert—the margin between survival and death was narrow indeed.

  The next afternoon Melanie bustled in with one of Jessica’s newly altered dresses and news of a fiesta to be held in the courtyard that evening. “Because of some battle back in May of ’62 when the Mexicans beat the French. They’ll have food and music and dancing, and everybody will be there. Isn’t that grand? I haven’t been to a party in so long. Do you think this will do?” She shook out the gown, one of Jessica’s favorites, a pale yellow silk with a green underskirt and sash and low-scooped neckline. “I altered it for you.”

  “Thank you, but the doctor—”

  “Oh, he says it’s fine. As long as you don’t dance, of course.” Melanie held the dress to Jessica’s shoulders. “The color is lovely on you. Do you think the Wilkins brothers dance? Oh, I hope so. Do try it on. I took a piece out of the underskirt to make a fichu so it would be less dressy and provide more coverage for your, ah . . .”

  “Ballooning bust line?” Jessica stared down in dismay at her suddenly voluptuous bosom. At least it was keeping pace with her ever-growing waist. But Melanie was right—with the addition of lace across the shoulders and neckline, the dress was more appropriate for a woman in her condition. Or, say, the Cheviot Hills back home. The girl truly had a gift.

  Melanie continued her chattering monologue, babbling on about Hank and Jack and the news that the escort was on its way and how she didn’t want to go and wasn’t Jessica simply thrilled to be having twins?

  When she was permitted to, Jessica made the appropriate responses. Melanie insisted Jessica allow her to dress her hair, which she deftly fashioned into an elaborate bun with wispy curls dangling at her temples and nape. Jessica thought it attractive but impractical, and the high topknot made her impossibly tall. But Melanie was so pleased with her efforts, Jessica said nothing other than to compliment the results. And the results were amazing.

  She scarcely recognized herself in the cheval mirror Consuelo had moved into her room. The blisters had healed, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles and a rosy glow that wasn’t wholly unattractive, and the sun had softened the bold red of her hair with golden streaks and highlights. Pleased, Jessica smiled at her reflection. Despite her mammoth proportions, she looked quite the thing. Confidence renewed, she pushed her worries aside and, hiking her chin, followed Melanie down the hall and into the courtyard, ready to face the world again.

  The world, even within the narrow confines of the Wilkins ranch, was larger than she had expected. The ladies, all three Wilkins brothers, and Dr. O’Grady were present in the courtyard, along with several other women Jessica didn’t know and twenty or more men who apparently worked on the ranch. Even Maude was there, ensconced in a carved throne-like chair, her foot propped on a worn damask footstool. Mr. Ashford attended also, as impeccable as she remembered, despite the sling and fading bruises on his face. Sadly, neither seemed to be enjoying themselves, judging by their unsociable expressions.

  Three tables stood in the center of the courtyard. Two sagged under the weight of dozens of platters of food—both Colonial and Mexican, as well as something Iantha called “down-home vittles.” But the third table made Jessica’s mouth drop in astonishment.

  It was covered with baby items, some new, some used, all handmade. Baby quilts in gay designs, lovingly stitched and softened by many washings. Lacy gowns and satin caps so tiny they could have fit the finest china dolls. Stacks of napkins and cuddly stuffed dolls with embroidered faces and yarn hair. There was even a cradle, so beautifully made the finished wood was as smooth as satin.

  Jessica was speechless. That these kind people, many of whom she hadn’t met until tonight, would be so giving to a stranger astonished her. For a moment she simply stood there, emotion clogging her throat as she trailed her fingertips from one gift to another and struggled to find words eloquent enough to express her gratitude. When she finally regained her composure and looked up, the first face she saw was that of Brady Wilkins. He slouched against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, his head a half-foot higher than the men around him, watching her with such fierce concentration it seemed to draw all the air from her lungs.

  Because of him, she was alive. Because of him, her babies had a chance at survival. Because of his generosity, she was here this day, sharing this moment with his family and friends.

  Blinking against the sting of tears, she smiled directly at him. “Thank you,” she said in a voice loud enough for all to hear but meant especially for him.

  He didn’t move, didn’t smile. Yet she felt a bond so powerful it was as if he had reached across the crowded courtyard and brushed his fingertips against her face.

  Frightened but not sure why, she tore her gaze from his. Gripping a quilt to hide the tremble in her hands, she smiled at the ladies gathered around her. “It is a comfort to know my babies will be wrapped in such love. Your generosity overwhelms me.”

  They smiled back. She forced herself to relax, thinking the worst was over. Then they commenced parading her around the courtyard like a prized heifer. A big, awkward heifer.

  Every lady had her own predictions about the babies—gender or genders, hair color, eye color, size, arrival date. She admitted the only thing she knew for certain was that one was a girl and her name was Victoria. It pleased her to be able to openly acknowledge her daughter at last. Just saying her name aloud made Victoria seem real to her in a way she never had before.

  But the men made her uncomfortable. Especially Brady. She could feel his gaze tracking her progress around the courtyard, and the weight of his attention was like a breath against her back.

  Uneasy among so many strangers and rattled—by what? Blue eyes? A smile? A look she couldn’t define?—she muddled through the introductions and congratulations as graciously as she could, until finally she was able to escape behind a table of food.

  Female hysterics, she decided as she loaded a plate with fried okra and smoked beans and spicy sausage. Emotional aberrations brought on by her condition. Nothing more.

  “Worked up quite an appetite, have you?”

  Looking up from her overflowing plate, she found Brady Wilkins grinning down at her. She almost choked. Setting the plate aside, she dabbed bean juice from her chin and tried not to dither.

  Seeing him up close, she realized again how shockingly handsome he was in his blue chambray shirt, new denims, and turquoise-studded belt. He’d even shaved and slicked down his unruly black hair, although it was already sliding over his forehead. Without his hat, he looked younger, almost comical with that band of paler skin stretching from brow to hairline that his hat usually covered. If possible, he seemed taller, too. But perhaps that
was the boots.

  She took a deep breath to clear her head, then immediately exhaled when she saw how the action drew his attention to her bosom. “I see you found your razor,” she said inanely.

  “I did.” His gaze moved up to her face, then to the top of her head. He frowned. “What’d you do to your hair?”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “I like it better when it’s down. Can’t understand why a woman with hair as pretty as yours would wad it up like a cow pie.”

  He thought her hair was pretty?

  No, wait. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you say cow pie?”

  He flicked a curl dangling by her cheek. “The curls are nice. But it’s prettiest when it’s hanging loose and the wind sends it flying so it catches the light like a fiery halo.”

  She blinked, so addled she couldn’t marshal a single coherent thought.

  “Well.” He gave her that dazzling smile, dimples and all. “Eat up. If we run out, I’ll have the boys butcher another calf for you. And by the way”—he motioned to the punchbowl at her elbow—“don’t drink that. The one for the ladies is on the other table.”

  Nonplussed, she watched him walk away, wondering why she always felt so uncertain and confused whenever he was near. Maggots in the brain, no doubt. Or demonic possession.

  He thought her hair was pretty, did he?

  Once the meal had ended, men pushed the tables back against the walls of the courtyard and Dr. O’Grady unwrapped his fiddle. One of the ranch hands stepped forward with a mouth harp and another held a guitar. Iantha’s husband, Buck, tapped an intricate rhythm with two hollow sticks while Iantha kept a jingling beat on a beautiful hide-wrapped tambourine. It was lovely, the fiddle music lively and exhilarating as only a true Irishman could make it, and soon dancers filled the center of the courtyard while watchers clapped in rhythm.

  Weary from the excitement and being on her feet for so long, she glanced around for a place to sit. When she saw poor Melanie unhappily positioned at her mother’s side, Jessica took pity.

  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Kinderly?” she asked, stopping before Maude. “Melanie, would you mind surrendering your chair for a moment so I can visit with your mother?”

  “Of course.” Before her mother could protest, Melanie was off like a runaway carriage.

  Seeking a new target, Maude turned her disapproving glance to Jessica as she settled in the chair beside her. “I wasn’t aware you were in a family way, Mrs. Thornton. When did you say your husband died?”

  Jessica was saved from answering by Mr. Ashford’s approach. “Ladies, may I join you?”

  Jessica nodded, grateful for the interruption.

  Whipping out a handkerchief, he positioned a chair beside hers then sat, carefully straightening his trousers as he crossed his legs at the knee. “So. Do twins run in your family, Mrs. Thornton?”

  “They do. My grandmother was a twin.” Jessica watched his elegant, almost feminine fingers pluck a tiny puff of lint from his cuff. Oddly, the fastidiousness that had once impressed her now put her off. He must spend hours trimming his skinny mustache into such a precise line. And where did he put all that lint he collected? And had he always been so short?

  “I must thank you, Mrs. Thornton.” Ashford gave her a rueful look. “I understand Wilkins burdened you with my care while he went to his ranch. I’m shocked he would ask that of a woman in your condition. One wonders how we would have fared had he not returned.”

  “I daresay we would have perished.” Jessica leveled her gaze at him. “So I am sure you must be as grateful as I that he did return.”

  He pressed his lips in a tight smile, then directed his attention to Maude. “I hear Colonel Kinderly is sending an escort to see you and Miss Melanie on to Santa Fe?”

  “Yes, with an ambulance wagon. Perhaps you might care to travel with us. Dougherty wagons are quite roomy, you know.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Smiling, he glanced at Jessica. “And you, Mrs. Thornton?”

  “The doctor was most specific that I not travel.”

  Maude clucked. “Of course. You poor dear.” Then recovering from her burst of sympathy with amazing speed, she turned back to Ashford. “When will you be able to travel?”

  “Not a moment too soon, ma’am.”

  Jessica was surprised by the disgust in his tone. “Have you been ill treated here?”

  “Not at all,” he said dryly. “Unless one would consider the doubtful ministrations of a lame Mexican woman, the wretched food, and these less than clean conditions ill-treatment.”

  Jessica was astounded. But before she could call him to accounts, Maude cut in. “I quite agree. I am most anxious to be shut of this place.” She then launched into a litany of complaints encompassing not only Indians, Mexicans, Southerners, and Texicans, but also all three Wilkins brothers, the condition of their home, and anyone hapless enough to be in their employ.

  Astonishment turned to fury. Admittedly, from the little Jessica had seen when Melanie ushered her to the courtyard, the house was a bit unorthodox—the dining room serving as an armory, the front parlor a cluttered office, the back parlor a storage place for everything from tack to catalogs to unused furniture. But that might be expected in a household run by men. What she found incomprehensible was Maude Kinderly and this officious little railroader presuming to criticize the very people who had saved their lives and seen to their care for almost three weeks. It was too much by half. “I am sure our hosts are as anxious for you to depart as you are,” she snapped. “In fact, we shall all breathe a sigh of relief to see you safely on your way.” She rounded on Ashford. “And if you found a lame woman’s untiring efforts on your behalf so distressing, you might consider the discomfort she must have suffered traipsing up and down the stairs, pandering to your every whim. I daresay it was considerable.” Barely able to hide her disdain, she rose. “Now if you will excuse me, I feel the need of fresh air.” Either those two had gotten worse or she had grown smarter. Probably both. Despicable ingrates.

  After circling the courtyard, she found another chair half hidden behind a lanky shrub with tiny yellow flowers. From there she happily watched the dancing grow rowdier and more high-spirited as the men’s trips to their designated punchbowl grew more frequent. Colonials certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.

  As the sun set, the mountain air cooled, and workers lit warming fires in footed braziers along the walls. Lanterns strung on ropes overhead gave the courtyard a festive air and cast flickering light over the whirling dancers. The open sky, the smell of food, and the sound of music and laughter brought up memories of country fairs back home.

  Should she write Annie again to let her know she was safe? A hollow ache filled her chest. Did Neddy still have nightmares? Had Rebecca outgrown her lisp? Did they even remember her?

  “Why are you hiding in the bushes?”

  She looked up to find Brady hovering over her.

  “Should I get Doc? I’ll get Doc.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled to reassure him, wondering how he’d found her and if he’d been watching her every move all night. An unsettling thought . . . but rather nice, too. “I’m not hiding.”

  “Then what’s wrong? Did Jack do something? I told him to leave you alone.”

  She was a bit taken aback by the ferocity of his concern. She’d never been fond of helpless women and certainly didn’t consider herself one. “Do stop hovering,” she chided. She pointed to where Jack leaned against the far wall watching Elena chat with some of the wives. “He’s over there by Elena.”

  Jessica watched his eyes narrow on Jack and wondered if the rivalry she sensed between the two brothers encompassed Elena as well. For Jack’s sake, she hoped not. How could he hope to win out over Brady? He and Elena were a beautiful couple and they obviously shared deep feelings for each other. Another unsettling thought. Jessica, you’re such a ninny.

  She sighed. “It’s been a lovely party, but I think I shall retire.”
As she gathered herself to rise, he reached down to help her, and before she could stop herself, she shrank back.

  His hand dropped to his side.

  She tried to cover her embarrassment by brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.

  “I won’t hurt you, you know.”

  That unruly forelock had fallen over his forehead again, softening the rugged angles of his face and giving him a boyish look. It disarmed her. Charmed her. How could she fear a man who couldn’t even make his hair behave? “I know.”

  At least, her heart knew. But her mind had heard those words before and look what it had gotten her. “Good night, Brady.”

  She felt him watching her as she crossed the courtyard. But once she’d stepped into the house, the thought of going back to the room that had been her prison for a fortnight sent her wandering the dim hallways. It was a sad house, a monument to a way of life long passed, and like the men who resided here, it needed tending. She passed her room and continued on until she found a doorway onto the porch that ran beyond her window. The tang of fresh-cut wood mingled with the sweet scent of roses growing against the foundation. There were only two usable chairs—an oversized rocker and a straight chair with a much-used saddle pad on the seat. All the others were either missing an arm or a leg or loaded down with a variety of horse paraphernalia, seed packets, catalogs, and discarded apparel. Jessica chose the rocker and settled back with a sigh.

  The sinking crescent moon hung low, and pinpricks of starlight dotted the black dome of the eastern sky. The breeze was soft and cool, bearing the chirp of crickets and the lonely calls of night birds. It was a lovely evening. As she rocked, a feeling of contentment came over her. “We’ll be all right, Victoria,” she said as she gently stroked her rounded belly. “We can do this.” She would find George. She would have two beautiful babies to love and then she would feel whole again.

  At a sound, she looked over to see Brady crossing the yard toward the porch. His head was down and he was talking to himself. It must have been something amusing because he laughed. He didn’t look frightening to her then. Just a man. A strong, honest man who liked to tease, who talked to himself when he thought no one was looking, who made promises he actually kept. Elena never need fear anything with him at her side. Except perhaps the wrath of God for his reprehensible language. She watched him draw nearer, wondering when he would see her, and was almost run over before he did.