by Warner, Kaki
She looked up with that same empty stare he’d seen on his mother’s face ten years ago, and it sent his anger to a flash point. He thrust the crying baby toward her. “Feed your son.”
She blinked and looked around. “There’s a nurse—”
“No. You do it.”
Awareness sparked in her eyes. “I—I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” When she tried to pull away, he grabbed for her shoulder, missed, and got her gown instead. The thin fabric tore, exposing one swollen blue-veined breast. He watched her feeble attempts to cover herself and felt half sick. It shamed him to be doing this, but he was too angry to stop now. Shoving her hands away, he laid the baby on the bed beside her.
The baby howled, his tiny fists waving, his face red with indignation.
Jessica shrank back, but Brady trapped her head in his hands and held her fast. He brought his face close to hers. “You’re his mother, damnit! Act like it.”
Realizing he was scaring her, he pulled his hands away and forced himself to step back. It sickened him to see the fear back in her eyes. “Feed him,” he snapped. “If I have to stand here all night, you’ll at least do that for your son.”
It didn’t take all night, and in fact, took little more than half an hour. But by the time it was done, the baby was acting colicky, Jessica was crying, and Brady was about to puke. When it was clear Jessica had no more milk to give, he took the baby from her unresisting arms and passed him out to Angelina. After sending her to the kitchen to finish feeding him, he closed the door and went back to the bed.
Jessica lay curled toward the wall again. This time he felt no anger, just a deep sense of loss and resignation, knowing she would probably never trust him again.
“Look at me.”
Slowly she rolled over. She looked ravaged, worse than after the stage crashed, worse than when she was fevered. More than anything he wanted to gather her in his arms, and tell her he would find a way to fix this and make everything right for her again.
He reached out to brush a limp curl from her face.
She jerked her head away.
Surprised by the jolt of pain her action brought him, he let his hand fall back to his side.
“You’re going to do this, Jessica, because he’s your son and he needs you. And because none of this is his fault, any more than it is yours.”
She didn’t respond, but if an expression had substance, he would be bleeding to death.
“Even if I have to come in here a dozen times a day to make sure you do. Understand?”
He waited, watched the emotions play across her face—fear, despair, fury—and he was glad, because at least now she was feeling something.
“I understand you’re a bloody bastard,” she finally said.
“So you’ve said.” Then, because he was so relieved to see that spark of temper back in her eyes, and because he’d been wanting to do it ever since he’d walked through the door, he leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. Drawing back before she could bite him, he said, “Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. BRADY HAD SHATTERED THAT CAREFULLY erected wall between her and her pain, and now she could find no rest, no peace.
She hated him. Despised him. How dare he do this to her.
Her anguish was immeasurable and unbearable. She had no defense against it but anger. Seething with fury, she lay staring out the window, wondering how to go on from here.
She glanced over at the cradle.
At John Crawford’s son.
It might not be the baby’s fault or hers, but they would both carry that curse forever, no matter what Brady said. Couldn’t he understand that? Didn’t he know what she was going through?
She sat up and peered over the side of the cradle.
Red fluff showed above the edge of the blanket. She heard a faint snuffling, as if his nose was stuffy from all his crying. He was very small.
Then why did she feel so threatened? Was it because he was male? A smaller version of the man she despised? Would the sins of the father . . .
With a cry, she slumped back, her mind in such turmoil her limbs shook.
He was just a baby. A redheaded baby who looked more like her than his brute of a father.
Her baby.
For a long time she stared up at the adobe ceiling, listening to her son breathe while tears slid down to dampen the hair at her temples.
She was a mother now. She must act like one. Her son needed her.
It was a litany she repeated over and over, until slowly the knot in her chest loosened. After a while, anger faded into numbness then weary acceptance. Finally, too exhausted to fight it any longer, she closed her eyes and slept.
She awoke to see dawn creeping across the sky. She waited until it bathed the tombstones in golden light and backlit the mesquite tree in a fiery nimbus, then on trembling legs, she rose. Moving quietly so she wouldn’t wake the baby, she pulled on her robe and stepped into her slippers, then left the room.
Her body was so sore she had to brace her palms against the walls for support as she shuffled down the hall. By the time she made it out onto the porch, she panted with exertion. Once she’d caught her breath and her eyes had adjusted to the harsh morning sunlight, she carefully made her way down the steps into the yard. The scent of roses was so overpowering it made her gorge rise. Against the stone foundation the blossoms looked like bright splashes of blood.
As she crossed the yard, the hound scrambled out from under the porch. He kept his distance, watching her slow progress with sad canine eyes, as if waiting to see what she was up to before committing himself to action. He probably sensed her dementia. Animals were good at that. After a few moments he lost interest and, with a yawn and a stretch, crawled back into the shade under the porch.
Chickens laid a trail of droppings as they moved from her path. Sharp rocks cut into the thin soles of her slippers. She should have worn her walking boots rather than these useless satin slippers. She should have taken more care. She shouldn’t have fainted and fallen down the steps.
Victoria, forgive me.
Before she had traveled a hundred feet, Elena and Consuelo tracked her down. “Where are you going?” Elena called from the porch as Consuelo came down the steps toward her.
“I need to go.” She waved a shaky hand toward the hill. “Up there. I need to see—”
“Está enferma,” Consuelo cut in, taking Jessica’s arm in a firm but gentle grip. “You are not well. Come. I will help you to your bed.”
“No.” Jessica pulled her arm free with such force, she almost lost her balance. “I must.” She looked over Consuelo’s shoulder at Elena watching from the porch. “Please,” she beseeched her friend. “Don’t stop me.”
“But, señora—”
“Let her go, Consuelo,” Elena called out.
Consuelo thinned her lips in disapproval. Then, shaking her head, she said, “Está bien. I will help you.” She put her arm around Jessica’s shoulders.
Again, Jessica pulled away. “No. Please. I must go alone.”
Reluctantly Consuelo stepped aside. “Tenga cuidado, señora. We will watch for you.”
Her progress was painfully slow. Overworked muscles ached in protest, and it took all of her concentration to keep her balance as she worked her way over the uneven ground. Less than a quarter of the way up the hill, dizziness overcame her. Leaning over, head drooping as she gripped her knees, she waited for the weakness to pass.
Rocks clattered behind her.
She looked back to see Brady riding up the hill.
Laughter rose bitterly in her throat. Her hero, riding to the rescue—or her watchdog, coming to harass and scold her. Wearily, she straightened.
Yet as she watched him ride toward her, she realized that despite that horrid scene between them last night, she needed this man. He had seen and touched what she never could. Those work-worn hands had held the child she would never know. Perhaps it was fitting that he shou
ld be there when she told Victoria good-bye.
He rode bareback, his long legs reaching below the horse’s belly. Bits of hay clung to his shirt. His hair was wet, as if he’d been washing and had left in such a rush, he’d forgone his hat as well as a saddle. He didn’t ride with the stiff poise of a well-seated Englishman, but with such a loose, fluid grace, it seemed he and the horse were one.
Naturally he was scowling.
As he reined in, the horse eyed her warily, nostrils flaring as it tested her scent. She lifted a hand to stroke its neck, giving as much reassurance as she took.
“What are you doing, Jessica?”
She looked up at the broad dark shape of him against the low morning sun, and felt again that unshakable connection. She was bound forever to this man. By dirt. The cruel irony of it was so piercing, it almost brought tears to her eyes. She was part of RosaRoja now, chained throughout eternity to this place and this man, by the dirt of her daughter’s grave.
God was such a trickster.
Resting her head against the horse’s neck, she breathed in his musky animal scent, felt his solid warmth against her brow. She didn’t want to argue with Brady, or have to explain why she was doing this. She just wanted to be allowed to do what she had to do. “Please.”
He hesitated, then leaned forward and held out his left hand. “Take ahold.”
A moment later she sat sideways behind the horse’s withers, the backs of her legs draped over Brady’s thigh, her fingers gripping the horse’s mane with what little strength she had left.
Powerful muscles moved against her hip as Brady nudged the horse forward. The motion tipped her backward, and when his arm closed around her waist, pulling her to his chest, she didn’t resist. She needed the contact, to be held by him, to know for this time, at least, she wasn’t alone.
They stopped beside the mesquite tree. He helped her down, then pushed open the gate.
Jessica moved on wooden legs, battling an unexpected and almost overwhelming urge to flee. Dread built with every halting step. Suddenly she realized she didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to acknowledge that under that pitifully small mound of dirt her daughter was buried. She wanted to run, and keep running, until she outdistanced this hilltop and the past and all the heartache it had brought her. Yet no matter how loudly her mind screamed against it, her legs wouldn’t stop moving . . . bringing her closer . . . until she was close enough to see the roses . . . then the marker . . . then her daughter’s name carved into the weathered wood. And finally the pain defeated her.
With a cry, she staggered, palms pressed over her heart, her mind reeling. A terrible howling rose inside her head. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Then strong arms closed around her, anchoring her against a hard, solid body, as the grief finally broke free in hoarse, wrenching sobs.
ALL HIS LIFE BRADY HAD TAKEN CARE OF THINGS. WHEN Jacob went to fight the Mexicans, he took care of Ma. When Ma got sick, he took care of his brothers. While Jacob was dying, he took care of the ranch. That was his job. Most of the time he was good at it. But that morning, as Jessica cried for a baby she would never see, or touch, or know, he just stood there in gut-churning helplessness because there wasn’t a damned thing else he could do.
It was the worst feeling he’d had since Sam.
She cried for a long time. When it was over and she had said her good-byes, she let him take her up on the horse in front of him again, and they rode back down the hill. He kept the horse at a slow walk, taking his time, because he knew it might be a long time before he held her again.
Right now she was drowning in pain. But come tomorrow, when she remembered what he’d done last night, she might decide she never wanted him near her again. She might even tell him that and think she meant it. But it wasn’t going to be that way.
Today marked a change for both of them. They had each left a part of themselves beside the mesquite tree. In an agony of grief, Jessica had buried a part of her heart with her daughter. Brady had given up his without a fight. His feelings for Jessica were so strong now, he could no longer deny them. He didn’t want to deny them.
He tightened his arm around her, felt the delicate ridge of her shoulder blades against his chest, and a sense of rightness moved through him. He wanted this woman. He wanted her pain, her laughter, her body, and her heart. He wanted her with him forever. And he would do damn near anything to make that happen.
Dropping his face to the top of her head, he pressed his lips to her silky hair.
You’re mine.
Sixteen
AFTER HER ORDEAL AT THE CEMETERY, JESSICA WAS SO EXHAUSTED she slept until early afternoon, awakening to the sound of her son’s hungry cry and the sight of Brady looming in the doorway.
“About time,” he said, moving aside as the wet nurse—Angelina, wasn’t it?—left after changing the baby’s napkin. “I was about to let Bullshot have at you.” He picked up the squalling infant, wincing as the hungry howls rose in pitch. “Has your temper, I see.” Holding him in outstretched arms as he might a thrashing piglet, he carried him toward the bed. “You want to do this lying down or sitting up?” he asked as matter-of-factly as if he inquired about sugar for her tea.
“Sitting.”
Holding the baby against his chest with a hand that dwarfed the tiny body, he slid his other arm beneath her shoulders to help her sit up. Once she settled against the headboard, he lowered the baby into her arms, then stood back, studying her. If he noticed she still wore the torn gown from last night and her trip up the hill earlier that morning, he said nothing, although Jessica could see it held an inordinate amount of his interest. “Do you plan on watching?”
He looked up from his perusal of her chest and had the audacity to smile. “I don’t mind.”
“I certainly do.”
Thankfully he didn’t argue, and dropped into the chair beside the window. After a moment, he rose again, slid the drape to one side, and opened the window as wide as it would go. “This room needs airing.” He gave her a look. “In fact, you could use—”
“Hush.” But to her utter disgust, she realized he was right. How long had it been since she’d bathed? It was revolting that she had sunk so low. Needing to change the subject, she said in a peeved tone, “This is improper, your staying in here while I feed him.”
“It bothers you that much?”
The question gave her pause. She considered how she would feel if he left, compared to how she felt now, with his male vitality so dominant it overrode all the dark memories trapped within the room. She was surprised to realize that not only did it not bother her, but she actually wanted him to stay. Another rule trampled by circumstance. “You may stay.” Tipping her head back against the headboard, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the unfamiliar and indescribable sensation of having a baby nurse at her breast.
A baby. Her baby. No one need ever know John Crawford was his father.
She must have dozed off. When next she awoke, the baby was back in his cradle, Brady was gone, and Consuelo was pouring a kettle of steaming water into the copper hip tub that had been moved from the upstairs water closet after the Kinderlys left.
Brady returned for the evening feeding, and despite the impropriety of having him present while she nursed her baby, she was glad to see him. Perhaps she was lonely or simply insane, but when he showed up in her doorway wearing a big grin and a form-fitting shirt that showed off his impressive physique and matched his astounding eyes, she couldn’t help but grin back.
“You’re looking better.” He stepped into the room. “Smell better, too.”
“I was not that bad.” Trying to maintain at least a semblance of propriety, she pulled the edge of the blanket over her son’s head as he nursed.
“Maybe not bad enough for Bullshot to roll on you, but getting there.”
She refrained from snorting. “This from a man ever in need of a shave and a trim.”
“I may be scruffy, but I’m clean.” H
e said it as if cleanliness were a rare and commendable thing, which around here, it might very well be. “I bathe all the time.”
“Where?” She couldn’t believe she was actually asking about his personal habits. Nor could she imagine him fitting into the small tub she had just used. Just picturing it brought a smile to her lips and a flush to her brow.
“Lots of places.” He walked over to stand beside the bed. His eyes moved over her, then he turned and went to stand at the window. “Mostly the creek if it’s warm enough. Or there’s an oversized tub behind the cookhouse. But it’s got tick dip in it now.”
She didn’t ask if the dip was for the livestock or the cowboys. “You bathe outdoors?” It struck her anew how much she had changed that she could even ask such a question.
“Sure. The water’s cool and clean as long as you stay upstream of the cattle. There’s even a shady swimming hole. Elena goes there sometimes. Or I can take you if you’d prefer.” His grin told her which he would prefer and why. Cheeky.
He circled back toward the bed again. “I won’t let you hide out, you know.”
They’d had this conversation before. “I am not hiding out.”
“Because I watched it happen once before, and I won’t watch it again. Fair warning.”
Was he referring to her avoidance of strangers? Or his mother’s death? Before she could ask, he went back to the window. He seemed distracted, edgy. She wondered if he felt constrained in small spaces. Whenever he came into the room, he seemed drawn to the window. Perhaps that was why he seemed to prefer the porch to the courtyard, and why he spent more time in his rocker than at his desk. A man his size needed space around him, more room to stretch than most. Yet in Brady’s case, it seemed as much a mental need as a physical one. Another piece to the puzzle.
The baby finished nursing and drifted to sleep. Jessica studied him, enjoying the milky smell of him, the warmth, the connection of this tiny body resting against hers. Elena was right. He was a beautiful baby.
“Is he done?”