Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  The tree beckoned, limbs drooping toward her, luring her into eyelet shade.

  It was a dusty windswept place—two new graves and two-dozen older ones enclosed within a rusty fence. A sad place, eerily quiet except for the squeal of the hinges as she pushed open the gate and stepped through.

  Like most everything at RosaRoja, this little graveyard needed tending. Cactus tangled with the iron bars of the fence, weeds crowded the headstones. Several of the tilted stone markers were so worn by time and wind, the words were barely legible. The oldest bore long Spanish names and dated back into the last century. Those added later had heavily carved borders of twining roses with back-to-back R’s chiseled across the top. The two most recent graves carried temporary wooden crosses and were so new the earth was still slightly damp. As she wandered the rows of this forlorn and lonely graveyard, Jessica realized it was as much a history of the feud as a resting place for those it had claimed.

  She found Sam in a shady corner beside the other Wilkins family graves. Three were clustered together and carried the same year, 1859: Samuel Adams Wilkins, Katherine Brady Wilkins, and Rachel Charlotte Wilkins. Off to the side stood a gravestone dated two years later: Jacob Nathaniel Wilkins.

  She hadn’t realized so many were lost in so short a time. Brady had buried two-thirds of his family and taken responsibility for his younger brothers and this vast ranch, all within the span of two years.

  Bending awkwardly, she set a small bouquet of roses beside Sam’s marker, then straightened. Elena said Brady never spoke about what happened when Sam died. Yet he told her. She had never spoken about her rape. Yet she told him. It made no sense.

  The wind whispered through the leaves and rattled the long mesquite pods, but brought no answers. She stood for a long time, thinking about the past, the future, what Sam had suffered and what Brady suffered still. When would it end?

  “Help him, Sam,” she whispered. “Help him find his peace.”

  She looked around, squinting against the afternoon sun as a deep sadness rose within her. So many lives lost, wasted by this feud. All because of RosaRoja. Sudden anger gripped her, made her want to shout her frustration out loud.

  It’s just dirt. You’re dying over dirt.

  As quickly as it erupted, the anger faded. It wasn’t the dead she wanted to reach, but the living. Irritated at her own foolishness, she swiped moisture from her eyes. Brady would never leave this land. RosaRoja owned him as much as he owned RosaRoja. In some way she would never fully understand, he needed all this sun and space and windy silence around him, needed it more than he would ever need her.

  What was it Elena had said? The land would never let him down. Fathers faltered, mothers drifted away, and brothers died or moved on. But RosaRoja would be here forever. It was the one certainty in his life. How could she compete with that?

  Jessica looked down at Sam’s small grave. No wonder Brady clung to this land so hard. Everything good in his past lay buried in the dirt of RosaRoja. He could never leave it—not for her—not even for himself. If she wanted him and wanted to stay here with him, she would have to accept that.

  Fool. A sound escaped her throat, part laugh, part cry of despair. Wanting and staying were the easy part. The hard part would be taking second place to dirt.

  Foolish, foolish woman.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN BRADY LED HIS MEN THROUGH the arched gate. Waving the others on, he reined in beside Rikker. “You’ll stay for supper?”

  “I got enough light to see me home. Wanted to give this to the Englishwoman before I go.” He pulled a crinkled envelope from his saddlebag. “Sheriff in Socorro sent it on.” He gave Brady a sideways look. “Probably took note of those posters floating around.”

  Ignoring that, Brady nodded toward the letter. “From her brother?”

  Rikker squinted at the writing across the front of the envelope. “From England. Looks like a woman’s hand.” He lifted the envelope to his nose for a sniff. “Smells flowery.”

  Her sister, Brady decided. Probably tracked her to Socorro through letters from her brother. Or maybe that horse’s ass Ashford tried to cash in on the reward and told the sheriff in Socorro Jessica was here. “Take it on then. I’ll be there directly.” With a nod, he reined the bay toward the trail that led up to the mesquite tree on the hilltop.

  Thoughts of Sam had plagued him all day, but in a different way than they usually did. As ill advised as his confession to Jessica might have been, it had left behind a small measure of peace. Now he could think of Sam without that sick feeling of dread. He welcomed that change, no matter the cause.

  As he rode slowly up the hill, he could feel doors closing in his mind. Not slamming, as if shutting in something too terrible to face, but closing softly, as if putting whatever lay behind them gently to rest. Sam was slipping behind one of those doors. Brady could feel him drifting away, and even though it saddened him, he realized it was time to let him go.

  At the fence he dismounted and ground tied the bay. Pushing open the gate, he stepped into the past.

  The sun hung low, staining the stone markers with a rosy wash. Wind whispered through the mesquite branches and sent dust coiling around his boots as he walked to the corner where Sam lay.

  He was surprised to see a ribbon-tied bundle of roses propped against his headstone. Bending, he picked it up and played the ribbon through his fingers. Sleek, shiny satin. Pink. He smiled, certain it was Jessica’s.

  The woman constantly surprised him. So pregnant she could hardly walk, yet she came all the way up here to put flowers on the grave of a boy she had never met. It was like her to do something like that. She was always worrying over other people, shedding tears for them, but rarely herself. Despite her prickly ways, the woman had a kind and giving heart.

  Still smiling, Brady propped the roses back against Sam’s marker. “You would have liked her, Sam. She’s a pisser with freckles and red hair, just like you.”

  As the day drifted away on gold-tipped clouds, Brady sat beside Sam’s grave, telling his little brother about the prim and fiery Englishwoman who had wormed her way into his heart and given him back the laughter he thought he’d lost.

  JACK POKED HIS HEAD THROUGH THE KITCHEN DOORWAY. “Sheriff brought a letter for you, Jessica. He’s waiting on the porch.”

  Elena glanced up from the potatoes she was peeling. “Perhaps he has news of your brother.”

  “I hope so.” Jessica wiped her hands, then quickly untied her apron. That odd, anxious feeling struck her again, so powerful and unexpected, it sent the room spinning around her. She grabbed at the counter for balance, then as suddenly as it came, the dizziness faded. Disoriented and confused, she looked around. Everything seemed normal. But that feeling of something terrible looming just beyond her sight remained.

  Nerves, she chided herself.

  She soon decided Sheriff Rikker was the most deliberate and slow-talking individual she had ever encountered. Before they had even gotten through the niceties, she was so beside herself with impatience, she was all but tapping her toe. When he finally pulled a rumpled envelope from his vest pocket, she almost snatched it from his hand.

  It was from Annie. Ignoring the sheriff, she quickly scanned the letter. Joy gave way to fear. That prescient feeling returned. Then her heart seemed to fall from her chest. “Oh, God . . . no . . .”

  A terrible pain gripped her. Her vision dimmed. Her legs folded and she fell.

  BRADY HEARD SHOUTS AS HE RODE BACK DOWN THE HILL. AT first he thought it was Consuelo yelling at Bullshot. The hound had a strong aversion to clean laundry, especially when it hung on a line, flapping in a stiff breeze. But it wasn’t Consuelo yelling at the hound. It was Elena calling for him. He kicked the bay into a gallop.

  As he rounded the porch, he saw his brothers running from the corrals toward the house and Rikker and Elena bent over something at the bottom of the steps—a woman with red hair, lying too still. He was down and running before the bay stopped. Shoving Rikker
aside, he knelt beside her.

  She was pale as parchment. He could see the pulse at her throat and knew she was alive but couldn’t tell if she was hurt. “Get Consuelo,” he snapped at Hank. “Jack, send for Doc.” He turned to Rikker and Elena. “What happened?”

  “She fainted,” the sheriff blurted out before Elena could answer. “She was reading this letter and then said, ‘Oh God,’ and fainted face first down the steps. Damnedest thing I ever saw.” For emphasis, he waved the crumpled letter in Brady’s face.

  Brady snatched it from his hand and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “Get water.”

  “How much? A bucket? A cup?”

  Christ! “Where the hell is Consuelo?”

  “Estoy aquí.” The Mexican woman rushed down the steps, followed by Hank. When Brady wouldn’t move, she shoved the sheriff out of the way and knelt at Jessica’s other side. Muttering under her breath, she ran her hands over Jessica’s body.

  “Is she hurt?” Hank asked.

  Brady sat back on his heels to give Consuelo more room. “Can’t tell. There’s no blood. She’s breathing. I don’t know. Jesus.”

  Consuelo flattened her palms against Jessica’s belly in one place, then another. As she pressed lower down near the pelvis, Jessica moaned. Her eyes flew open.

  For a moment they didn’t focus. Then her gaze found Brady’s and he could see the fear build. “It’s him. God—” Suddenly she arched, her spine bowing off the ground. A hoarse sound escaped her throat, then she slumped back, eyes closed.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Brady demanded. “Do something!”

  Consuelo straightened. “Nothing is broken. There is a small bump aquí en la frente”—she pointed to a bruise on Jessica’s forehead—“pero nada más.”

  “Can I move her?”

  “Con cuidado.”

  His legs wobbled so much he wondered if he’d be able to lift her. As he slid his arm under her shoulders, her eyes opened again, round and wild. “Brady,” she gasped, fingers twisting in his shirt. “Help me.”

  That sent such a jolt through Brady, he could have lifted a yearling steer. Careful not to bang her head or feet on the walls, he carried her into the house. As soon as he laid her on the bed, Elena and Consuelo began working on the long row of buttons down the front of her dress.

  He stood at the foot rail, his mind in turmoil, afraid to stay, but more afraid to leave. He watched a wet stain spread across her skirts and caught a terrible smell, like blood, only worse.

  Jesus. What was happening to her?

  Elena shoved him toward the door. “Vete. Go. We will call if we need you.”

  He allowed her to push him into the hall, then watched the door close in his face. He stood for a moment, not sure what to do. Then with a curse, he whirled and headed to the porch.

  Rikker was still there, talking to his brothers. They all turned when he slammed out the door. “How is she?” Jack asked, looking as rattled as Brady felt.

  “Hell if I know.” He dragged a hand over his face, trying to rid himself of that smell, like something was dying or dead. He was familiar with the birthing process. He’d helped deliver calves and foals and puppies and one time a fawn whose mother had been mauled by a cougar. But this was beyond his experience. Something was wrong, something terrible.

  “Maybe she got bad news,” Rikker offered.

  He’d forgotten about the letter. Fishing it out of his pocket, Brady opened it.

  Dearest Sister,

  Your letter came today saying you have just landed in America! I have been frantic with worry not knowing what had befallen you! John was furious that you would leave us without even a good-bye. When will you return? Or have you found George and decided to stay as you hinted you might? You must tell John everything when he comes. I am sad to write that since you left, we have fallen on Desperate

  Circumstances. But with your help, dear Jessica, we may find our way to prosperous times once again. Now that you have begun a New Life in America, I am asking—no, begging—that you sign over the deed to the Hall so that John can invest in a wonderful opportunity. We are in Dire Straits, dear Sister. Creditors hound us every day, and without the Hall to secure our debts, I fear for our future.

  There is no need to come here. John is sailing next week to bring the papers to you in Socorro. You need only sign them and we will be Saved. I beseech you, dear Jessica. Help us.

  Your Loving Sister,

  Annie

  18 May 1869

  Bickersham Hall

  Frowning, Brady studied the date. May. Two months ago. Crawford could be in Socorro any day now. Fury exploded. “That bastard!” He crushed the letter in his fist and threw it against the wall with such force he nearly dislocated his shoulder. “If he comes near her, I’ll kill him!”

  He felt the other three men staring at him. Avoiding their questioning looks, he snatched the crumpled letter from the floor and shoved it back into his pocket.

  “Bad news?” Hank asked.

  “Something like that.” No wonder she fainted, finding out that bastard was dogging her trail. He had no doubt he could keep her safe—if she would let him. But since she was in no condition to run, what choice did she have? Knowing the way she felt about her sister, she would probably sign away her home without a second thought. He didn’t care if she did or not, but he damned sure wouldn’t allow Crawford to intimidate her into doing it. He’d kill him first. Hell, he might kill him anyway for what he had already done to her.

  “Anything I can do?”

  He looked up, surprised to see the sheriff still standing there, flanked by his frowning brothers. “Yeah. There is.”

  Without telling them about the rape or revealing more about Jessica’s situation than he had to, he explained that her brother-in-law, John Crawford, was on his way from England to try to force her to sign over the deed to her home there. “He’ll go to Socorro first, asking after her and her brother, George. Then he’ll come here. I want to know when he’s on his way.”

  Rikker narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Brady forced himself to smile. “So I can bake him a cake.”

  Rikker didn’t buy it.

  “Hell, you saw her, Sheriff. She just needs warning. If she’s well enough and wants to see him, then there’s no problem.”

  “And if she doesn’t want to see him?”

  “Then she won’t.” Brady showed his teeth in a broad open smile.

  Rikker didn’t buy that either. “You better not start anything,” he warned.

  “I won’t. If somehow the bastard ends up dead, it won’t be by my hand. You’ve got my word on it.”

  Rikker must have found that idea hilarious; he actually cracked a half smile. “You figure he’ll save you the trouble by hanging himself like Alvarez?”

  “He’s English. They’re partial to guns.”

  Rikker instantly sobered. He waggled a finger. “Not a rope, bullet, knife, whip, or anything else. Your word you won’t even hit him.”

  It rankled that the sheriff would put restrictions on him, but Brady gave his word. If he couldn’t hit the bastard, he had two brothers who would gladly do it for him.

  Rikker headed down the steps toward his horse. “I’ll send word to the sheriff in Socorro to watch for this Crawford fellow.” He tightened the cinch, then gathered the reins and swung into the saddle. “Soon as I hear back, I’ll let you know.”

  As Rikker rode through the gate, the door into the house opened. Elena stood in the doorway. When Brady saw the tears on her cheeks, the air left his chest.

  “Is she all right?” Hank asked.

  Elena nodded then held out a bundle of cloth Brady hadn’t noticed before. “I need a box.”

  Brady stared at it, unable to move. He knew what was in Elena’s hands and understood what she wanted. He just couldn’t make his body respond. Then Hank started past him, and that sent him into action. “I’ll do it.”

  Brady was shocked at how small it was. It barely spanne
d his open hand and probably weighed less than a three-week-old kitten. How could life account for so little? Instinctively he knew that this tiny scrap of flesh had never drawn breath, had, in fact, died long before Jessica’s fall. But at one time it had held a beating heart, and because of that, it would be mourned.

  “Does she know?”

  Elena shook her head. “Consuelo gave her a potion to stop the birth cramps. I pray it lasts until the doctor comes.”

  “The other one?”

  “Consuelo thinks it still lives.”

  He started down the steps, then stopped and turned back. “Could you tell . . . ?”

  “A daughter.” Fresh tears started down Elena’s cheeks. “Por Dios.” She swayed.

  But before Brady could react, Jack stepped forward to slip an arm around her shoulders. “Sit down before you fall down,” he said gruffly. Gently he steered her toward the two rockers, scolding as he went. Brady was relieved to see Elena lean into him, accepting his support.

  “I’ll get a box.” Hank clumped past him down the steps.

  As it happened, the rectangular wooden box that horseshoe nails came in was a fair fit. They even found an unwarped plank for a marker. Rather than take it to Buck to be carved, Brady decided to do it himself. He wouldn’t do as neat a job as Buck, but the plank was only temporary. The next time he went to Val Rosa, he would order a fine stone marker. Maybe something with angels carved on it. Jessica would like that.

  An hour later, he trudged up the hill with the tiny casket in one hand, the marker in the other. Hank followed with the shovel and an armful of roses. By the time they reached the top, the sun had slipped behind the ridge and the air had started to cool. Brady pushed open the gate and walked to where Sam lay. Setting the box on the ground beside his brother’s headstone, he took the shovel from Hank and began to dig.