Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  By the time he came up for air again, she could scarce remember how to think at all. “No. Pursuing me.”

  She felt his smile against her lips. “Am I pursuing you?”

  “Aren’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she pulled back to study his face. It pleased her to see he was as affected as she.

  With an explosive exhale, he sat back and dragged his free hand over his face, then through his hair, then over his face again. “I guess I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  His answer sent her defenses up. “Well, stop.”

  “I don’t think I can.” His gaze never leaving hers, he pinned the back of her hand against his chest, letting her feel the fast drumbeat of his heart so she would know the effect she had on him. “I don’t think I can,” he said again.

  Anger seeped away, leaving her feeling shaken, yet oddly buoyant. “Why, Brady?” She pulled her hand free of his and sat back in her rocker. “Look at me, for mercy’s sake. I am as graceless as a duck in dancing pumps. I look like I’m wearing a bustle backward, my ankles are as big as tree trunks, and my hair has turned to straw. Are you blind?”

  He shrugged. “You’re pregnant.”

  “Exactly. So why are you pursuing me?”

  “I can’t pursue you when you’re pregnant?”

  “Why would you even want to?”

  He studied her for a long time. “Maybe I think you’re pretty,” he finally said. “Or maybe I like springers. Or maybe I’m thinking that someday you won’t be pregnant, so I’d better make my moves now, while I’ve got you in hand, so to speak.”

  Not something the infamous Lord Byron would have said, but touching nonetheless. “But we’re so different.”

  “Hell. Women.” With a labored sigh, he tipped his rocker back and hooked his heels over the porch railing. “You’re going to work this to death, aren’t you?” His crooked grin took some of the sting out of his words.

  “I am simply trying to understand.”

  “It’s not complicated. When I look at you, I don’t see differences. I see possibilities.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. Anything. A better life. A better me.” He spread his big hands in a palms-up gesture. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

  How else indeed? She almost went dewy eyed. In less than a dozen words he had captured her heart and put prissy Lord Byron to shame. If she had not been graced with good sense and strong morals, she might have flung herself on his neck. As it was, it was a near thing.

  But typical of Brady, with the next breath he sucked all the sweetness out of a beautiful sentiment. “So I’d be grateful if you’d have those babies so we can get on with it. I’m tripping on my tongue here.” His grin showed both dimples and spoke of sin.

  Choking back laughter, she dropped her head into her hands. One minute he had her on the verge of violence, then tears, and now laughter. The man would surely drive her insane.

  Thirteen

  “COMPANY,” RUFUS SAID.

  Brady straightened to see riders coming through the gate. He and Ru had been working in the cutting pen for most of the day and he was glad of the distraction. Castrating was filthy, backbreaking work, and between the stench, and the flies, and the bawling of the calves, his nerves were stretched thin. Wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he squinted into the late afternoon sun at the two men riding toward them.

  He recognized Langley, one of his top hands, but didn’t know the other man nor did he recognize his horse, an underfed bay Langley ponied on a short lead.

  “That rider looks hurt,” Ru observed.

  Frowning, Brady pulled off his blood-soaked gloves and dropped them and his cutting knife in a bucket, then unbuckled his leather chaparreras and tossed them over the fence. As he swung over the top rail, Langley reined in.

  The other rider sagged, head drooping, and might have toppled from the saddle but for the rope that lashed his hands to the horn. The dark head told Brady it wasn’t Sancho, but it wasn’t until Langley grabbed a handful of black hair to yank the man’s head up that he saw it was Paco Alvarez, Sancho’s sidekick and half brother.

  A surge of emotion shot through him. “Where’d you find him?”

  “Boot Creek. Two got away. I sent Red and Tobias after them.”

  “Take him to the barn. I’ll get Hank and Jack.”

  When Brady and his brothers entered the barn, they saw that Langley and Rufus had tied Alvarez to the center pole. The man needed the support. By the condition of his battered face, it seemed he’d been reluctant to accompany Langley back to the ranch. And by the look in his eyes, he still had some fight left.

  Good. Brady didn’t want this to be easy.

  Enough light came through the open loft door for them to see, so Brady closed the big double doors. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he walked to within an arm’s length of the bound man and stopped.

  He felt the fury build, growing with every heartbeat until he could taste it, feel it, hear it humming through his veins. He waited until Paco lifted his head, then said in a calm, quiet voice, “Where is he?”

  Alvarez responded with a barrage of curses in both English and Spanish.

  Brady backhanded him. The bound man’s head snapped back against the post with a thud. A new cut opened at the corner of his mount.

  “Look at me, Paco.”

  Alvarez glared up at him, showing his defiance in bared, bloody teeth.

  “You’re not leaving this barn alive. Nothing you do or say will change that. Understand?”

  Alvarez didn’t respond, but his struggles stopped.

  “Good. Now what you can control is how many trips we’ll make when we carry you out. It can be one man-sized trip, or a lot of bucket-sized trips. Your choice. Do you understand that?”

  Alvarez’s swarthy skin took on a gray hue. He watched Brady with the unblinking wariness of an animal in a trap.

  “Good. Now I’ll ask you questions. If you answer right, this’ll be over pretty quick. If not, it’ll get messy.” Even in the dim light, Brady could see the sweat beading on Paco’s forehead. It made him smile.

  “Now once again. Where is he?”

  Alvarez repeated his earlier answer, but this time his curses carried less conviction and his voice began to wobble.

  Brady waited for him to finish, then waited longer, until the rasp of Paco’s breathing sounded loud in the hushed barn. As he watched the terror build in those round, black eyes, something dark and cruel pulsed through him, rousing the savage inside.

  He nodded to Jack. “Get the axe. And a bucket.”

  Before his brother had taken two steps, Alvarez was fighting the ropes. Two more steps and he was screaming. “¡Espérate! Stop! Yo te digo todo,” he finally choked out, his head drooping in defeat. “I will tell you.”

  “Good.” Brady’s relief was so great he curled his hands into fists to hide their shaking. He didn’t know if he could have followed through with his threats. He liked to think he was better than the man before him, but with the hate so strong inside him, he was glad he didn’t have to put it to the test. “For the last time, Alvarez. Where he is?”

  “Una cueva.”

  “A cave? Where?”

  “Blue Mesa. On the north slope there is a canyon. La entrada—the entrance—is hidden by a landslide. The cave is a mile in. Up high. You would not see it unless you knew where to look.”

  Brady was shocked. He’d ridden this land for almost twenty years, but had never known such a place existed. No wonder they hadn’t found Ramirez.

  “Describe it.” He wanted no surprises when they went in after Sancho.

  Clearly Alvarez held no loyalty to his half brother, and in fact, seemed to relish the idea of leading Brady to him. He described the slope up to the cave, the tunnel, and the inner cavern. He told them about the three men they’d lost—the one in the burned canyon, the one who died in Val Rosa, and the one who ran off
after the fire ambush failed. He said Sancho had sent him to Mexico to get more men, and that he and the two new recruits had been on their way back to the cave when Langley and his men caught them. So now it was just Sancho.

  “You will never find him,” Alvarez said in a weak attempt at bravado. “He is more animal than human now. He does not sleep, does not eat. But he is out there even now, watching and waiting.” He grinned, blood from his cut lip smearing across crooked teeth. “He knows every move you make, cabrón. You will not see him until his knife is in you.”

  Brady told Jack to hitch the buckboard, then motioned Hank and the other two men to leave.

  Jack nodded and headed for the door, Langley and Rufus trailing after him. Hank didn’t move. “What’re you planning?” he asked, frowning.

  “Nothing. Just go.” Brady tore his gaze from the prisoner and met his brother’s troubled eyes. Hank, the reasonable one, the family conscience when he thought his brothers treaded dangerous ground. But this wasn’t about Hank or him or Paco Alvarez. It was about Sam. Striving for a calm tone, Brady said, “Go on, Hank. It’s all right. I’m just going to talk to him.”

  Hank searched his face, then reluctantly left. After the door closed behind him and Brady’s eyes adjusted to the dimness once again, he pulled his long knife from the scabbard in his boot.

  Paco’s gaze fastened on the blade as Brady moved toward him. He started to whimper. A wet stain spread down the front of his trousers and the stink of urine overrode the smell of horse manure and alfalfa in the closed barn. He shrank back, eyes wild, breath coming in quick bursts as Brady slid the tip of the blade into the knot. A quick twisting motion and the knot loosened. When Brady pulled the rope free, Alvarez sank to the straw, shaking with fear and relief.

  Slipping the knife back in his boot, Brady hunkered in front of Paco.

  He wasn’t a man who enjoyed inflicting pain or watching someone suffer. But what he felt when he looked at Paco Alvarez pushed him as close to brutality as he’d ever been. It was a struggle to hold himself in check.

  “Tell me about Sam.”

  “W-Who?”

  “My brother.”

  Paco stared at him through greasy strands of black hair. Then he laughed.

  And something snapped. Suddenly Brady was swinging the rope like a whip, again and again across that sneering face, until his arm wearied and Alvarez’s cries finally penetrated the red fog in his brain.

  Chest heaving, he lurched to his feet, the rope still clutched in his shaking hand. He sensed a cold and dangerous blackness hovering just beyond his vision, a terrible place that would swallow him forever if he didn’t bring the fury in check. With monumental effort, he took a step back. Then another. Slowly the noise in his head dimmed.

  Outside, a horse nickered. He heard cattle bawling and Bullshot’s throaty bark. Familiar, everyday sounds a world apart from the shadowy confines of the barn, where the air was filled with the rasp of their breathing and the stench of sweat and rage and fear.

  “Do you believe in God, Paco?” he asked, once his breathing had settled. “I do. The proof is that you’re here, now, in my hands. The devil is here, too, and he’s tempting me to do some really bad things. For the sake of both of our souls, we should avoid that, don’t you think?”

  Paco didn’t answer. But that look was back in his eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Needing to keep his hands busy, Brady slipped the rope through his fingers, working it into even, precise loops as he spoke. “I know it was you and Sancho. Elena told me some of it. You tell me the rest.”

  Paco let out a long, shaky breath. “It was Sancho’s idea to drag him. Not mine.”

  “But you helped, didn’t you, Paco? Everything. From the beginning.”

  “We watched the rancho,” Paco began in a defeated voice. “We saw you leave and waited for you to come back. It was you we wanted. Instead, we got the kid.”

  “His name was Sam,” Brady managed, fighting a sudden pressure in his chest. “Go on.”

  “He must have thought we were from the rancho. When he saw us, he pulled up to wait.” Paco sneered. “You should have taught him better, cabrón.”

  Brady worked the rope and concentrated on his breathing. “Then what?”

  “We stripped him and beat him.”

  In his mind, Sam screamed. Help me, Bray. Make it stop.

  “And then Sancho got out his knife.”

  Brady forced himself to listen, neither moving nor speaking throughout the grisly recital. It was important that he hear this, that each horrific detail be imprinted on his mind, so that after Sancho and Paco answered for what they’d done, there would still be someone left on this earth who knew what Sam had suffered.

  But every word was a whiplash across his soul, and listening was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  By the time Alvarez had finished, the rough rope was almost embedded in his palms.

  Alvarez’s bruised lips curled in a smile. “If you had come back sooner, your little brother would still be alive. Do you think about that, gringo?”

  Every day. “Get up.”

  Paco struggled upright, his body tense, his gaze scanning the barn.

  Brady wished he would try something, anything, that would give him a reason to get his hands around the sonofabitch’s throat.

  Alvarez’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Bracing one hand against the post, he spit blood then straightened. “So now you kill me?”

  “Now you choose. The bucket, or this.” He tossed the rope at Pa-co’s feet.

  Don’t do this, a voice whispered through his mind. But Brady blocked it. “You know how to tie a noose, don’t you?”

  Paco’s face paled. His lips moved in silent prayer.

  Brady knew Alvarez was Catholic and believed suicide was an unforgivable sin. He knew Paco would try to buy his way into purgatory, to make his deal with God. But not today. Not ever. Suicide was the fast road to hell, and Brady was determined that Paco Alvarez make the trip. He wanted this man to die without hope of salvation, to burn forever at Satan’s side. Just like him.

  “Do it, Paco. Or I’ll take the next two days and a rusty axe to convince you.”

  Paco made a choking sound. His mouth fell open. “Por Dios.”

  “Pick up the rope.”

  Brady watched, detached, thinking it an odd thing to see a man die while he was still alive. It began in the eyes—a faint dimming, like a lantern slowly going out. Then the body seemed to shrink into itself, as if the spirit had already flown. And finally all that was left was a trembling shell with the resigned, numb look of a steer in the slaughter line. Seeing it happen to Paco Alvarez filled Brady with a cold and bitter satisfaction.

  Are you watching, Sam?

  Weeping openly, Alvarez picked up the rope.

  Brady stayed through to the end. After the last twitch and gurgle, he leaned over, vomited into the straw, and left the barn. He told the men waiting outside to cut Paco down and load him in the buckboard, then he walked to the house. He felt like he was moving in a dream, his body going through the motions, but his mind left somewhere behind.

  You’ll pay for this, that voice warned.

  But Brady knew he was already doomed. He had moved beyond redemption that morning on the desert with Sam over a decade ago, and even though his actions, both then and now, damned him for all time, he knew he would do it again.

  As he mounted the porch steps, Jessica came out the door. She saw Alvarez’s body being loaded into the wagon, then stared in such horror at the bloody stains on Brady’s shirt, he felt compelled to explain it was from castrating—the calves, not Alvarez—although he was sorry he hadn’t considered it—for Alvarez, not the calves. That sent her scurrying.

  After grabbing clean clothes, he went to the creek. He scoured with river sand until his palms stung, but still couldn’t wash away all of the taint of death. Finally he dressed and headed back for the jug.

  Jack met him by the corrals. “When are w
e going after Sancho?”

  Brady hadn’t thought that far, hadn’t thought beyond anything except what Alvarez had told him in the barn. Dragging a hand through his damp hair, he tried to focus. “First light. We’ll take enough men to cover the ridge above the cave, as well as the canyon below. That sonofabitch isn’t getting past us this time.” He continued toward the house.

  Jack fell in beside him. “You did what you had to.”

  That startled Brady. Then he realized Jack was talking about Alvarez, not Sam. It wedged a space between them, that withheld knowledge, and it made him feel tenfold the burden that came with it. “It was his doing.” To forestall more questions, he added, “Have Alvarez dumped at the boundary line. Send someone to tell Rikker he can take him to Val Rosa or let him rot. I’ll burn the bastard before I let him rest in Wilkins land. Does Elena know?”

  “I’ll have Hank—”

  “You tell her.”

  “But—”

  Brady rounded on him. “Christ, can’t you for once do what I ask?” He regretted the outburst as soon as he heard his words. He felt flayed and ragged, and for one brief moment his resentment was so strong he wanted to get on his horse and ride away and never look back. But he couldn’t do that. This was the work he was required to do. And he’d do it because that was the way it was.

  “Jack, I can’t deal with this right now,” he said by way of apology. “She’ll take it better from you.”

  Some of the anger faded from Jack’s eyes. “I’ll tell her.”

  Dinner came and went while he slumped in the rocker, trying to drink the rage away. Unfortunately the whiskey only made the fires inside burn hotter. Elena came out and tried to get him to eat, but he waved her away. After a while she gave up and went inside.

  The sun set and the moon rose, a fat crescent with a dusty reddish cast. He drifted from disheartened, to morose, to downright savage. Even Bullshot stayed away. Hearing what Sam had suffered had sent his mind in a downward spiral. He couldn’t think past it, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to drink past it either. Even after all these years, his little brother’s death was still a bleeding wound in his mind.