by Warner, Kaki
Heat inched up her neck. She gripped her knees so tightly she could feel the sharp edge of fingernails through her skirt and two petticoats. How many times had this man already come to her rescue? Whenever she had faltered, he had been there, quietly offering his strength to help her back onto her feet. Could she impose on him one more time?
“As I said, it names Adrian trustee of the Hall until he has a daughter.” She hiked her chin, determined not to weaken under those watchful eyes. “It also names a guardian for him.”
“And who is this guardian?”
“You.”
No one spoke. Jessica held his gaze, letting him see her need, hoping it would convince him to do this one last thing for her and for her son. “If you consent, of course.”
Before Brady could answer, Jack’s palm slapped the table with a crack as loud as a gunshot. “Hell, you ought to just marry the sonofabitch.”
“W-What?”
“Marry Brady.”
Shocked silence. Elena and Hank stared at Jack. Brady stared at Jessica. But still, he didn’t speak. A telling silence.
“Well, why not?” Jack looked around the table. “She needs a husband, the kid needs a father, and he damn sure needs a wife. What say, Hank? Elena?” He laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Maybe we should throw in some trinkets to sweeten the deal.”
“Cállate, Jackson,” Elena scolded, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.
Brady tried to keep his temper in check while he planned all the ways he would make Jack pay. He could see Jessica was upset, but the little bastard had backed him into a corner. Now no matter what he said, she would probably take it wrong or think Jack had pushed him into it.
Shocked and a bit hurt by Brady’s silence—not that she had any intention of marrying him or anyone else, but still, if he didn’t want her, why had he said those outrageous things last night?—Jessica adopted what she hoped was an expression of amused tolerance. She raised a cautionary hand. “There is no need to martyr your brother on the sacrificial altar, Jack. This is not about my safety. It’s about Adrian and his future should I die. I have named Brady guardian because I know he would never allow anything to befall my son.” She waited to see if he would refuse her, wondering what she would do if he did.
“I’d be proud to watch over Ben,” he finally said.
My woman. My son. In his mind Brady raised a fist in triumph.
Jessica sank back, so relieved she almost forgot that she had had to force him into it. “Adrian,” she corrected with a gracious nod.
Brady just smiled.
THERE WERE TWO WAYS TO CALM AN UPSET WOMAN, BUT Brady doubted Jessica would allow him to do either. So instead of going out onto the porch after supper as he usually did, he grabbed Jack by the scruff of his neck and steered him down the hall to his office. He used his brother’s head to open the door, shoved him through, then slammed the door shut behind them.
“You little sonofabitch!”
Jack grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “You bent my hat.”
“I’ll bend your ass around a stump and call the dogs if you ever do that again!”
Jack squinted at him as though trying to focus. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
“It means I’m mad, you stupid bastard.”
“No. That thing about the stump. Why would the dogs—”
“Shut up.” Brady stomped over to the desk. Yanking open the bottom drawer, he grabbed his special bottle of Hannah Goodman’s Red-Rye Whiskey, reputed to be the finest brew to come out of Mormon country and guaranteed to turn an ugly woman pretty, or a confirmed bachelor into a polygamist with a single sip. He took two swallows straight from the bottle. Plopping down in his chair, he propped his feet on the corner of his desk and waited for his lips to go numb. Christ.
“What about me?” Jack asked, eyeing the bottle.
“Go to hell.”
“Then where’s the jug?”
“Doc stole it.” With a curse, Brady opened the drawer again, pulled out a dusty bottle of Forty Rod, and tossed it to his brother. “Suck on this.”
Jack made a face. “This stuff tastes like cow piss.”
“Better’n you deserve.”
“It’ll make my eyes bleed.”
“Then give it back.”
Jack took a sip and made a gagging noise. “Jesus. It’s worse than her coffee.”
“Shut up about her coffee.”
Pulling one of the rope-strung chairs from a corner, Jack sat and propped his heels on the other side of the desk. “You seem touchy, Big Brother. I wonder why?”
Brady toyed with the idea of shooting him, but decided that would probably wake the kid. He thought about dragging him to the barn, where he could beat the sass out of him in privacy, but discarded that idea, too. Maybe tomorrow. After Crawford left, he’d be wanting to hit something, and God knows Jack deserved it. “You shouldn’t have said what you did.”
Jack took a sip then swiped at his watering eyes. “Why not?” he wheezed. “It’s plain you have warm feelings for her. I was just trying to soften her up.”
Warm feelings? Brady almost laughed. His feelings were so warm, his balls felt blistered. But now, thanks to Jack, it might be weeks—months—forever—before he got her primed again. “Just stay out of it.”
Jack shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want.” Brady held out his hand. “Give me the bottle and get out.”
“Although . . .” Jack tipped the chair back on two legs and studied the ceiling. “She did seem taken with the idea.”
Brady’s hand sagged onto the desktop. “She did?”
“Not openly, of course. But if you understood women like I do, you’d know the signs.” He took a swig, coughed, then grinned. “I think it’s a good idea. I think you should marry her.”
Brady studied his bottle, wondering how the conversation had drifted so far. “Yeah. Well. I intend to.” And he sure as hell didn’t need advice from his little brother. Jack had the morals of a mining camp faro dealer and his taste in women proved it. Jessica was a different breed altogether.
“When?”
“When what?”
“When are you going to marry her? Assuming she’ll have you.”
“When this thing with Sancho is over.”
Jack laughed. “That could be forever. Your tongue is hanging out as it is.”
“That’s not my tongue.”
Which only made Jack laugh harder. “Just do it. Before she leaves you standing in the dust with your cock in your hand.”
“Hell, I’d need two hands for that.”
“I’m just saying you better make your move before it’s too late.”
“Oh? How’s this, then?” Brady drove a foot hard against Jack’s propped boots and sent him toppling backward. His brother and the chair hit the floor with a rewarding thud that made the glass doors of the bookcases rattle.
He peered around the side of the desk to see if Jack was hurt and was disappointed to see he wasn’t. As he settled back, a baby’s indignant cry echoed through the hall. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“Me?” Jack untangled himself from the chair and struggled to his feet. “You’re the one who pushed me over.” He winced, this time rubbing the back of his head. “I think I’m getting a headache.”
“Serves you right.”
His woman. His son. Brady sure liked the sound of that.
Seventeen
JESSICA AWOKE AT DAWN, EXHAUSTED FROM NIGHTMARISH dreams of John Crawford.
Throughout the morning she stayed busy, battling the anxiety that built with every hour. When she wasn’t pacing the confines of her room or tending Adrian, she sewed, taking in dress seams she had let out two months ago and finishing the samplers for the ranch women who had donated so many lovely things for her babies.
She whipped her needle in short, furious strokes, wishing it were his face she was stabbing. It had been over six months since she had last seen her brother-in-la
w. Did he think she was still the weak, frightened woman he had overpowered before? Didn’t he realize she would never let him do that to her again? Just the thought of it made her want to vomit—the smell of him—the whiskey and sweat—the feel of his hands—
I can’t do this! Panting with fear, she lurched to her feet. Her eyes swept the room, looking for escape. Then her gaze fell on Adrian, and the need for flight slowly died. She sank back into the chair, cupped her head in trembling hands, and waited for the panic to subside. When it did, she picked up her sewing, tore out the ragged seam, and began again. But inside, the rage simmered.
Morning dragged into afternoon. Moving Adrian’s cradle near the window so she would hear him if he woke, she paced the porch, marking time by the slow arc of the sun across the cloudless sky. What if something had happened? What if Crawford never came, and she spent the rest of her life in this terrible limbo of wondering, and waiting, and looking fearfully into the face of every man she saw?
She couldn’t bear it. She would die.
Bullshot wandered out from under the house and sat in the dirt, scratching and watching her pace. After a while the sun chased him up into the shaded porch. He flopped onto his belly, his head on his paws, those doleful eyes tracking her steps.
“You think I’m pathetic,” she said to him as she started another circuit. “All this walking but going nowhere.”
He cocked his head, belly-crawled forward a few inches, and stopped. When she said nothing more, he sighed and dropped his head back onto his paws.
When she wearied of pacing, she sank into the rocker. Shadows lengthened. The hound inched toward her with hopeful canine insistence, until finally he leaned against her skirts, his wide head a heavy weight on her knee. “If you drool on me, I’ll spank you,” she warned, stroking one long velvety ear.
“Leave her alone, Jack,” a familiar voice called through the open door into the office.
Jessica bit back a smile. “I was talking to your dog,” she called back.
A moment later, Brady strolled onto the porch. Jessica watched him come toward her and felt that low flutter where the babies used to be. The man had a way of moving that was music to her eyes.
“Is Bullshot bothering you?”
She forced herself to look away. “No, he’s fine.” She hadn’t seen Brady since last night, when Jack made that outlandish suggestion. She wondered if it had embarrassed him as much as it had her. She wondered why his silence had hurt so much. Hurt still.
From the corner of her eye she watched him stop beside her chair. His legs seemed to go on forever. They didn’t, of course, and she knew if she turned her head the slightest bit, she would see exactly where they stopped. She looked down at his surprisingly large boots instead.
“He crossed the boundary line an hour ago.”
Her gaze flew to his.
He must have seen her terror, because he hunkered by the rocker so their heads were at the same level. Taking her clenched hand in his, he gently forced open her fingers and laced them through his. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
God help her, she wanted to. She wanted to dump it all into Brady’s capable hands so she could pretend it had never happened, that she was safe and whole, and would never have to look into that hated face again.
But she wasn’t safe. Nor was she whole. And she never would be, unless she did look into that face one last time. That, or live in fear forever. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Good.” He released her hand and started to rise.
She caught his arm and brought him back to her side. “But I don’t want him to know about Adrian. It doesn’t matter who fathered him. Adrian is my son, not his. Crawford never need know. It might be safer for Adrian if he didn’t.”
“All right.”
She realized she still gripped his arm and pulled her hand away. But those eyes continued to hold her captive. Ancient eyes, like those of an old man who had seen more of life than he wanted to, or a young man who had seen enough to have few illusions left. They were the saddest and most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
Without thinking, she reached out, wishing she could soothe those lines of worry on his weathered face. “Do you ever shave?” she asked, trailing a fingertip along the masculine perfection of his prickly jaw.
“I shaved yesterday.”
“With what? A rusty knife?” She could hear the scrape of his beard against her nails, see silver hairs in his sideburns. She wanted to touch the springy curls, brush the fall of hair from his brow, test the softness of the glossy waves hanging past his collar. The incongruity of silky curls against that powerful neck made her smile. “You need tending.”
“Any time, any place.”
The way he said it, the way his eyes seemed to pull her in, sent her thoughts in flight. Smiling at that fancy, she let her hand drop back into her lap. “I know you’re tired of hearing this, but once again, thank you. I wouldn’t be able to do this alone.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“Am I?” She gave a shaky laugh. “I have my doubts.”
“You shouldn’t. What other woman would try to geld a man with an umbrella?”
She frowned, confused. Then she pressed a hand to her mouth as the scene at the stage stop flashed through her mind. She tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. “I thought I hit your face.”
He chuckled, an unfamiliar but welcome sound that brought a quiver of joy to her heart. “I figured it was worth it when you waved that lacy doo-dad and offered to tend my injury. I thought . . . well, finally . . . a woman who knows how to apologize. But you just wanted to tend my pretty face.” He said it like he didn’t know his face could drive a vicar’s wife to sin—or a twenty-six-year-old spinster to ruin.
A giggle escaped her, then another. She, who hadn’t giggled in over a dozen years. It felt good. “I thought you were attacking me, that you were a desperado.”
“I thought you were the finest thing I’d ever seen.” His gaze swept her face, came to rest on her mouth. “I still do.”
Laughter faded under a rush of heat. “You do know how to turn a girl’s head.”
“I’m trying,” he murmured, reaching up to pull her face down to his.
Oh, Brady, she thought as his lips moved against hers. If you’re thinking to distract me, you’re doing a marvelous job.
CONSUELO RUSHED INTO THE KITCHEN. “¡SEÑORA! HE comes!”
A jolt of fear almost buckled Jessica’s knees. Then Elena touched her arm and reason returned. She swept into motion, whipping off her apron as she spoke. “Elena, please take Adrian upstairs to the farthest room. I don’t want Crawford to hear him if he cries. Consuelo, would you please find Angelina in case he wakes for his feeding. Where’s Brady?”
“On the porch.”
She took a deep breath, released it, took another. She wiped her damp palms down her skirts. You can do this, she told herself as she left the room.
Brady stepped forward to take her hand as she came onto the porch. Behind him, Hank and Jack leaned casually against the posts at the top of the steps, watching a carriage coming down the road, escorted by two ranch hands.
“Looks like he’s alone.” Jack laughed. “Stupid bastard.”
Brady led her to the top of the steps. “Feeling mean?” he asked, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.
“Scared.”
“Want me to get your umbrella?”
She tried to smile, but the muscles in her face felt frozen. Glancing around, she saw a dozen or more ranch hands drift into the yard. “What are they doing here?” If fear overcame her, she didn’t want to humiliate herself in front of all these men.
“Protection. In case you get out of hand.”
The carriage cleared the iron gate and turned toward the house.
Her legs began to shake.
The hound scrambled out from under the house and set up a racket until Brady told one of the men to lock him in the
barn.
Scarcely able to draw breath, Jessica watched the carriage approach. Even at a distance, she recognized the arrogant tilt of Crawford’s head, the familiar posture of a small man trying to look taller. She pressed her palms against her rolling stomach. If he touches me, I’ll die.
Brady stood behind her right shoulder, not near enough to make contact, but so close she could feel the tickle of his breath against the hair on the top of her head. “Mmm. You smell good. What is that?”
“R-roast beef. Onions.” Oh God oh God.
The carriage pulled to a stop in the yard.
“Don’t leave me.”
She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until Brady whispered close to her ear, “I won’t. Now breathe.”
She tried, but her chest felt so tight and her throat—
Brady’s hand slid up her spine. At his touch, the constriction eased. For a moment, she leaned back against him, drawing in his strength as she gulped in air. The dizziness faded. She found her balance and straightened. His hand fell away.
Crawford climbed down from the carriage. He made a show of brushing dust from his trousers and jacket, then looked up at her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Jessica, my dear.” He walked toward the steps. “I have found you at last.”
Her heartbeat roared in her head.
He looked smaller than she remembered, narrower through the shoulders. Had he always been of such insignificant stature? She studied him, terror giving way to shock and confusion, seeing things about him she had never noticed before.
His hands were almost womanish. He was portly, his bottom-heavy form perched like a giant egg atop legs no sturdier than her own. He dressed like a dandy and moved with that same prissy saunter she had seen in Stanley Ashford.
How had she ever allowed this weasely little man to overpower her?