Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  Red and Tobias returned to report the riders that were with Paco got away, cutting a fast trail toward Mexico. After they left, Jack came to say the men would be ready to ride at dawn. He said Elena had taken the news about Paco well, although she seemed more concerned about Brady than Alvarez. He stood for a minute as if expecting something—a comment, a reply, an invitation to share the jug—but Brady was too foul tempered to rouse himself. Eventually, he left.

  Brady had almost reached a comfortable level of numbness when Her Ladyship came out again, this time armed with a look of determination and a plate of food. He ignored one and declined the other, perhaps more forcefully than he should have, because she slapped the plate onto the floor beside his chair with enough force to send peas bouncing into the roses. Then she yanked the jug out of his hand and sailed it after the peas.

  Brady swiveled in the rocker to blink up at her, so astonished he couldn’t find words to express it.

  “Are you inebriated?” she demanded.

  She made it sound like being drunk was the lowest a man could go. But he knew better. “Hell, no,” he said in indignation.

  “Then talk to me.” She stood ready to do battle, feet planted, her round belly almost nudging his shoulder. She was so close he could see the little bump of her navel pushing against the thin fabric of her dress. It weakened him, seeing that bump, and knowing that behind it, life grew, untouched and untainted. He lifted a hand, wanting to lay his palm against it and draw some of that purity from her body into his, and maybe wash away all the ugliness and rage and despair.

  But before he could touch her, she moved past to gracelessly lower herself into the rocker beside his. He watched her, feeling the differences between them more keenly than ever, and resenting that they mattered so much. He dropped his hand back to the arm of the rocker.

  “Go back into the house, Jessica.”

  “Not until you talk to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk. Go inside.”

  “Tell me what happened in the barn.”

  Jesus. He belched, saw her look of distaste, and belched again. “I gave him a choice. He chose the rope. Good night.”

  “You hanged him?”

  Gingerly he pressed his fingertips against his throbbing temples to slow the spinning. “I supplied the rope. He did the rest. Please. For chrissakes. Go.”

  He realized she had been holding her breath when she let it out in a rush. “Thank goodness. I told Elena you couldn’t do it. I told her you were incapable of killing a man in cold blood.”

  Brady lifted his head to stare at her. That she would make such a judgment without knowing anything about it infuriated him. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” His voice rose with every word. “You’ve got no idea what I’m capable of, so shut the hell up!”

  Maybe he was drunk after all. He saw her hurt and confusion, and tried to bring himself in check. Christ. He felt smothered—by the past, by her, by the weight of his own guilt. In desperation, he reached for the jug, then muttered a curse when he remembered it was gone.

  “Stop yelling and tell me.”

  “No.”

  “It may help.”

  “Sonofabitch!” He threw up his hands so abruptly he almost toppled out of the rocker. “Will you just get in the goddamn house?”

  “You get in the goddamn house!”

  He reared back, wondering if he’d heard right. He must have, judging by her owly look. But she stood her ground, damn her, offering no apologies or excuses. “Is this about your brother? About Sam?”

  “Aw, Jesus.” The woman could wear down stone.

  “Elena told me what happened. That Sancho and her half brother killed him.”

  “They didn’t kill him.” As soon as he heard the words, he wanted them back. But it was too late. They were out there for all time, and he could never call them back.

  “If they didn’t kill him, who did?”

  Oh shit. Suddenly, he felt like he was losing his balance, being pulled in two directions at once, and he wasn’t sure which way to fall. If he spoke now, what would he accomplish? If he didn’t and continued to lie and deny and pretend everything was okay, no one would ever know.

  Whiskey churned in his throat as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. Threading his fingers through his hair, he pressed the heels of his hands against his blurry eyes. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this anymore.

  “Brady?”

  He felt her watching, felt the press of all her questions, her needs and expectations. And at that moment, more than anything in the world, he wanted to be the man she thought he was—to be sure and honest and worthy.

  But how could he, with the past hanging over him like a bloody knife?

  He owed them the truth. He owed it to Sam, and in some twisted way he didn’t fully understand, he owed it to himself. But mostly, if he was ever to become the man this woman needed and wanted and expected him to be, he owed it to her.

  He let his hands drop. Unable to look at her, he stared down at the planks between his feet. “I did. I killed him.”

  He waited for her to get up, walk away, run screaming into the house.

  When she didn’t, he straightened and looked over at her to see the effect of his words. Her head was down so he couldn’t see her face, but he sensed her withdrawal. It opened a hole in his chest. You stupid bastard. You’ve lost it all now.

  Wearily he sat back, telling himself it was for the best. They didn’t fit and never would. But he would miss their evenings on the porch, and holding her hand, and stealing kisses in the dark. He would miss the laughter. And her. Tipping his head against the back of the rocker, he closed his eyes and waited for her to leave.

  Instead he felt a touch against his wrist. He looked down, realized she was trying to take his hand in hers, but he was gripping the arm of the rocker so tight she couldn’t loosen his fingers. He let go and turned his wrist so her palm fitted against his. He tried not to grip her too hard. He knew his hand shook, knew she felt it, but it was so good to touch her again, and he was so grateful she was still there so he could, he didn’t care.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “You don’t want to hear it.”

  “Tell me anyway. What happened when you found him?”

  “Let it go, Jessica. Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  In her ferocious need to know, she peeled him like an onion, layer by layer, until all that remained was the hard bitter core of the truth. Somehow he found the words but he used them sparingly. He didn’t want to put images in her mind that would haunt her as surely as they haunted him. So he didn’t tell her how broken Sam was, or the terrible things Sancho had done, or how he couldn’t even touch his little brother without making him scream.

  Sam’s cries echoed in his head. Help me, Bray. Make it stop.

  Swallowing hard, Brady tried to keep his voice steady. “He kept drifting in and out. When he was awake, he screamed. When he wasn’t, I did what I could. It wasn’t much. He was dying, and it would be a long, ugly death.”

  Brady closed his eyes, but still couldn’t get away from it—the pleading, the reek of blood, the rasp of his brother’s breath. And the flies—God, the flies.

  Beside him, Jessica wept, her sobs muffled by her free hand.

  Desperate to distance himself from the pictures in his mind, he focused on the dark silhouette of a nighthawk looping through the darkening sky. “So I did what he wanted. What he asked me to do.” He glanced over to gauge the impact of his words.

  Her eyes glistened silver in the starlight but she didn’t look away. That gave him the strength to tell her all of it, to make her understand why he did what he did.

  “He was just a little kid, Jessica. He was hurting so bad. And he kept begging and begging, and the flies—I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Help me, Bray. Make it stop. That’s all Sam wanted. All Brady could give him.

  “I thought about shoo
ting him, but I couldn’t. A bullet is . . . so . . . impersonal. But I had to do something. I couldn’t let him suffer any more.”

  The nighthawk dipped down then up, a moth trapped in its beak. “So I waited until he passed out. Then I picked him up and put my hand over his mouth and held him tight against my chest. As tight as I could.” He didn’t realize he was acting out the motions until he felt his palm pressing with such force against his chest he couldn’t breathe. He jerked it away and dragged air into his lungs.

  Jessica’s head pressed against his arm. He heard her crying, felt the hot wetness of her tears. She squeezed his hand so hard he felt tremors in her wrist.

  “It didn’t take long. Or maybe it did. I don’t remember anything but sitting there, rocking him, telling him everything would be all right. It seemed forever.”

  Somewhere in the roses, a cricket chirped. From under the porch came Bullshot’s snore. The nighthawk dipped and soared. Life went on. Uncaring. Unchanged.

  Sam. I’m sorry.

  His vision clouded. He knew his voice shook, but he couldn’t seem to steady it. “He didn’t struggle. He just . . . left. I’m not sure when. One minute he was there, then he wasn’t.”

  Suddenly the horror of it sent him to his feet. He made it no farther than the porch rail before words tumbled out. “Why didn’t I know, Jessica? How can someone die in your arms and you not even know? Jesus—”

  Breathing hard, he braced one hand high on an upright post and stared blindly out into the night. “He was my brother. I should have known.” He took a deep breath. The air was so thick with the stink of dying roses it made his stomach roll.

  He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. After a while her silence wore him down.

  “It changes things, doesn’t it?” he asked, without turning. “Knowing about Sam. Knowing what I did.”

  She didn’t answer.

  And still he waited, choking on hope and unspoken words, silently demanding that she stay, that she answer him, that she not walk away.

  Then he heard her move up behind, and felt her arms snake around his waist.

  “I’m so sorry, Brady,” she whispered against his shoulder, her body pressed so tightly against his, he could feel the vibration of her heartbeat against her back. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked down, saw the pale hands gently stroking his chest, and strength left him.

  Jesus.

  He didn’t want this.

  He didn’t deserve it.

  Damn her.

  Dropping his forehead against his upraised arm, he closed his eyes. It was just a touch—but coming now—from this woman—it nearly broke him.

  Fourteen

  SANCHO CROUCHED IN THE SHADOW OF A CREOSOTE BUSH AND watched the two men in the road. He had seen their wagon leave the rancho earlier and had followed them to this boundary gate. Now the wagon had stopped and the men were walking toward the rear.

  He thought about killing them. There were only two of them. He could sneak up, tie them, then set them on fire. He smiled, picturing it in his mind.

  Another picture intruded and his smile faded.

  The smoke might alert Wilkins. Sancho had seen the patrols. He knew they hunted him, and he did not want Wilkins to know he was still in the area until Paco came back with more men. A sudden memory sparked in his cloudy mind. Frowning, he looked around.

  ¿Dónde está Paco? He should be back from Mexico by now.

  Movement drew his attention back to the men on the road.

  They dragged a long canvas bundle from the bed of the wagon. Staggering under the weight of it, they carried it to the side of the road. As they dumped it on the ground, the canvas unrolled to reveal a man’s body.

  After tossing the canvas into the wagon, they climbed back into the driver’s box and reined the horses in a wide arc through the brush, circling back the way they had come.

  As soon as they disappeared down the road, Sancho crept forward.

  It was Paco. For a moment Sancho was so stunned he just stood there, staring into the bloated face of his half brother. Then rage exploded.

  ¡Pendejo! How could Paco do this to him? What about the men he was to bring back? The injustice of it rocked him, sent his mind spinning. Cursing and shrieking, he kicked Paco again and again until his half brother’s face was a pulpy mass and Sancho’s bad knee ached. When pain overrode fury, he lurched back, panting from his exertions.

  The coward had probably told them everything. Even now Wilkins and his men could be on their way to the cave . . . unless he was out there now . . . watching him. The idea sent Sancho lurching in a circle as he scanned the brush. He could almost feel those icy eyes boring into him. In the fading light, shadows seemed bigger, closer, almost alive. Fear sent him into a blind panic.

  Racing back through the brush, he threw himself into the saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. After riding hard for several miles with no sign of pursuit, he pulled his winded horse back to a trot. He needed to think, to make a plan. A better plan.

  He could do it without Paco. He had planned to kill him anyway for daring to call himself brother. Wilkins had saved him the trouble—and the enjoyment—of doing it himself. Another debt that cabrón would pay. But for now, because of Paco, Sancho had to start again. He would go to Mexico and gather his own men, promising gold, land, anything to gain their help. It would take time to find the right men, but when he did, he would come back and then . . .

  He frowned, trying to remember the plan he and Paco had devised. The details kept slipping from his grasp, but the end was as certain as death.

  Fire. Bright dancing flames roaring straight up to God. Just picturing it in his mind made Sancho laugh out loud.

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, BRADY LED HIS BROTHERS AND A DOZEN ranch hands out the gate toward Blue Mesa. He set a fast pace, so driven to find Sancho and end the feud, it wasn’t until Hank dropped back that Brady realized he was pushing the men and the horses too hard. He slowed and tried to curb his impatience, but his mind raced on.

  It had been a shocking thing last night on the porch with Jessica, telling her about Sam and what he’d done. He’d wrestled with it most of the night and still couldn’t believe he’d blurted out the whole sorry tale. It spoke of a loss of control that was at odds with his usual way of doing things. He should have been relieved to have finally gotten it off his chest. Instead he felt ragged and unsure, like the man who carried a heavy load for so long, when he finally got to set it down, he didn’t know what to do with his empty hands. His mind didn’t know how to deal with the unburdening of that terrible secret. Or her.

  It must have been the whiskey. He normally didn’t drink that much. Still, he shouldn’t have unloaded all that misery on her. He could hardly face it himself—how could he expect her to deal with it?

  He’d expected her to bolt. Instead she’d put her arms around him.

  A voice jarred him from his muddled thoughts. He looked over to see a rider angling toward them. Recognizing the sheriff’s big buckskin, he motioned for the others to rein in so the horses could blow while they waited for the sheriff to reach them.

  “Found Alvarez,” Rikker said once his buckskin had settled. “Someone stomped his face in. I’m thinking it wasn’t you.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Rikker reached into his vest pocket for the makings and built a smoke.

  It tested Brady’s patience, but he didn’t push it. He could see the older man had something on his mind, and the sooner they got through it, the sooner he could go after Sancho.

  Once the sheriff had the smoke drawing well, he flicked the ash into his cupped hand, shook it to cool it, then tossed it away. “Appears he was hanged.”

  “His choice.”

  Rikker’s bushy brows rose. “He hanged himself?”

  “More or less. He told us where Sancho is. You’re welcome to ride along.”

  Rikker pinched out his smoke. After rolling the butt between his thumb and forefinger to make sure no
spark remained, he dropped it to the ground. “Figure Sancho will hang himself, too?” he asked, nudging the buckskin into step beside Brady’s bay.

  Brady smiled grimly. “Sancho’s a knife man. He’ll probably slit his throat.”

  Sancho did neither, because he wasn’t at the cave. And even after Brady’s men did a thorough search of the whole canyon and the ridge above, there was no sign of him. Brady was so mad he couldn’t even speak for most of the ride back to the ranch.

  JESSICA HAD SPENT A RESTIVE NIGHT. WHEN SHE HAD FINALLY dozed off, she slept so hard she hadn’t heard the men ride out and didn’t realize Brady had gone after Sancho until Elena told her over their morning cup of tea.

  “They will be fine.” Elena held up her rosary beads. “I pray for them. This time it will be Sancho who will die.”

  Jessica didn’t know what to pray for. She just wanted this terrible feud to end.

  It was the waiting, she decided later as she wandered through the house. As the end of her confinement approached, she was often plagued with restlessness, but today, there was a feeling of presentiment as well, a sense that something awful was about to happen and she could do nothing to stop it. No doubt it had something to do with the terrible things Brady had told her about Sam.

  Her heart ached for him.

  It had taken her most of the night to come to terms with it. She understood why he’d done what he did. She even admired his courage in facing such a terrible decision. But it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that she fully realized the extent of his sacrifice. To ease his brother’s agony, he had put his own soul at risk.

  It was astounding. Blasphemous.

  Yet could there be greater love than that?

  She knew of no one who would willingly put those he loved above his own salvation—not her father, not George, not herself. But Brady Wilkins had done it without hesitation. What a gift it would be to be loved by a man like that.

  As the day wore on, her unease translated into a nagging headache and an inability to sit still. She had little appetite, no interest in gardening, and no inclination to sit and sew. She decided to walk. Because thoughts of Sam had haunted her all day, the path she chose led up to the graveyard on the hill.