by Warner, Kaki
Because she thought he was just trying to scare her and would eventually listen to reason. Because she thought their familial relationship would protect her. Because once she realized what was happening, it was too late, and the silk ties were around her wrists.
Rage engulfed her. She thought of all that this little maggot of a man had taken from her, all that she had suffered and still suffered because of him, and she wanted to scream her outrage. She watched him stop at the bottom of the steps and willed him to come closer so she could hit him, kick him, claw that smug look from his face.
“Dear Jessica.” His eyes flicked over her. He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “You are looking well, I must say. This pest hole of a country must agree with you.”
“The bruises are gone, if that’s what you mean.”
His smile faded. “May we talk privately?”
“No.”
“I had hoped we—”
“What do you want?”
Fury sparked in his pale gray eyes before he masked it behind an expression of mild regret. “You received Annie’s letter? You know why I have come?”
“I know your wastrel ways have put her and the children in jeopardy, so you have come begging to me like the craven dog that you are.”
Anger flashed, was again quickly veiled. “Now, Jessica.” He put a foot on the bottom step.
Immediately Hank and Jack came off the posts. The circle of cowboys in the yard tightened.
Blinking in surprise, Crawford glanced from the brothers to the living fence of hard-faced men crowding his back. “What is this?” He turned back to Jessica and, in the silky whisper of her nightmares, said, “Are you afraid of me, Jessica?”
Acid rose in her throat. Was he so convinced of her cowardice that he thought just the threat in his voice would bend her to his will? Had she made it that easy for him?
“Afraid of you?” She pressed a shaking hand to her throat, unsure whether to weep or run shrieking down the steps. “I saw your face in every man I met, felt your cruelty in every touch, every glance. But I was wrong.” She gave a strangled laugh. “Look at you. You’re nothing. An insignificant popinjay of a man. A joke. How could I ever be afraid of you?”
Crawford’s face turned an alarming shade of red. For a moment his mouth worked as if he chewed on his own tongue, then words spewed out of him like bile. “Do not use that tone with me, you slut! I will not stand for it!”
Brady was around her and down two steps before she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You promised Rikker,” she reminded him. “And me.”
She watched him struggle with it, saw it in his clenched fists, felt it in the tautness of the muscles beneath her hand.
But Crawford was too stupid to see the danger. He gave a harsh laugh and waved a hand at the men surrounding him. “Do your brave defenders know what they are protecting? Do they know you fornicated with your sister’s husband? Or have you spread your legs for them, too?”
This time a team of oxen couldn’t have held Brady back.
Too late, Crawford saw his peril.
Brady caught him by the seat of his pants and the back of his jacket, and yanked the much smaller man off the ground and over his head. For an instant he stood, magnificent in his frustration and fury, Atlas undecided. Then with a curse, he heaved Crawford into the rose bed.
Cheered by hoots and laughter from the men in the yard, he turned and came back up the steps, teeth flashing in a smile that would make the Devil sweat. “Rikker didn’t say not to throw him,” he told his grinning brothers as he once more took his place at Jessica’s side.
Her hero. How she loved him for it.
Fighting a smile, she sent an arch look over her shoulder. “I said I would handle it.”
“Sorry,” he said without even the pretense of remorse. Then he leaned down and against her ear added, “I think I wrenched my shoulder. Maybe you could rub it for me later.”
She didn’t want to laugh, sensing she was too close to the edge of hysteria. But with Brady standing guard at her shoulder and John Crawford rolling in thorns at her feet, how could she not?
To the vast entertainment of the onlookers, it took quite a while for Crawford to extricate himself. When he finally stood before her, bleeding from a dozen scratches, his clothing torn and mussed, his face contorted in a rictus of rage, she had to remind herself that despite his comical appearance, this man was capable of great evil. She knew not to underestimate him. She also knew that he was a coward and a coward always responded to a threat. Especially if that threat was real and substantial and frightening. Like Brady.
“Heed this, Crawford,” she said once he had his breathing under control. “You will never get the Hall. Ever. And as long as you live, I will see that it never belongs to Annie either.”
Crawford dabbed at his bloodied cheek with a handkerchief. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and I have.” She smiled, reveling in the rush of power that swept through her. “The documents have been filed. If you doubt it, check with my agent in Posten Cross.”
“You would willingly impoverish your sister?”
“I have written to Annie and explained my decision. I have told her that she and her children are welcome to come here to me.”
“Bugger that, you stupid woman! If you know what’s good for you . . .” His voice trailed off as the men around him drew closer. He said nothing more, but fury glittered in his darting eyes.
She almost laughed out loud. “You dare threaten me? In front of all these men? How foolish are you?” She paused, rather hoping he would suffer an apoplectic fit and bring this farce to an end. When he didn’t, she was forced to continue. “This is not England. And these”—she motioned to the glowering brothers standing guard—“are definitely not Englishmen. They know what you did. And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I have asked them to let you live. For Annie’s sake, not yours.”
Suddenly the fury was back, pressing against her throat. In a voice so savage she scarcely recognized it as her own, she said, “So listen well, John Crawford. If anything—anything—should befall me or anyone in my family, you will answer to these men. And they answer”—she glanced over her shoulder at the avenging angel with Satan’s smile—“to him. Do I make myself clear?”
“You won’t get away with this, you bloody bitch!”
“I already have.” She slashed her hand in furious dismissal. “Go! Leave before I allow these inventive gentlemen to have their fun. I am done with you.” She turned toward the door.
“Whore!” Crawford yelled after her. “I will find a way to stop—”
With a fiendish grin, Brady swept past her and down the steps.
Without waiting to see more, Jessica walked quickly into the house. She was almost running by the time she reached her bedroom. Dashing through the door, she slammed it shut behind her, then sagged onto the foot of the bed, her strength finally giving out.
It’s over.
Shaking violently, she pressed her hands to her face as all the anguish and fear and shame she had held inside for months exploded from her chest in choking sobs.
It’s over.
She heard the door swing open, and looked up to see Brady in the doorway.
“Is he gone?” Before he could answer, she rushed to the window and threw the drape aside. Through a blur of tears she saw the carriage bouncing out the gate in a cloud of dust. Her knees gave out and she sank onto the broad recessed windowsill, laughing and crying.
It’s over It’s over It’s over.
A shadow loomed over her, then she felt Brady’s hand patting her shoulder in that confused and endearing way men had when they want to help but are unsure how. “He’s gone, Jessica. He’ll never hurt you again. I swear it.”
She nodded and wiped at her face, struggling to stem the stream of tears rising from the bottomless well in her chest. “I kn-know.”
He eased down beside her, crowding her skirts and taking up most
of the space on the sill. She smelled dust, leather, his own masculine scent, and she drew it in like a drowning woman starved for air.
“There’s no reason for you to be upset.”
She hiccupped. “I—I’m not upset.”
“Oh. Well. You seem upset.”
“I’m n-not.” She gave a choking laugh and tipped her forehead against his shoulder, needing the contact, wishing she could get closer still and burrow under his skin where she would be safe and protected and part of him forever. “Th-this is the ha-happiest day of my life.”
“You’re happy?”
She lifted her head and gave him a shaky smile, wishing he could understand. “It’s over. I’m free.” Laughter bubbled in her throat, and suddenly she wanted to sing and shout and dance a jig across the wooden floor. “I have my life back. Isn’t that grand?”
To Brady, what was grand was seeing her happiness and hearing that seldom-heard laugh. This giddiness was a side of her he had never seen, and he was so struck by it, for a moment he couldn’t draw a breath. Just watching her awakened his own joy and brought a sting to his eyes.
Christ. She was turning him into a blubbering fool. Forcing sentimentality aside, he grabbed a handful of her skirt and held it out. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Wipe your nose.”
She pushed his hand away. “I will not wipe my nose on my clothing. That’s disgusting.”
“A runny nose is pretty disgusting, too.”
“You big dolt.” She gave his arm a gentle punch, then rose and went to the dresser. Pulling a hanky from the top drawer, she dabbed at her face.
Brady watched her reflection in the mirror as she repinned tumbled curls, his gaze drifting from her chestnut mane, down her raised arms, to the lush swell of upthrust breasts. He pictured her watching him in the mirror as she took her hair down for him, imagined himself moving up behind her, reaching around to slide his hands over those soft feminine curves.
He wanted her so badly, he was choking on it.
She sent him an impish smile over her shoulder. “How was I?”
“What?”
“Do you think I scared him?” She turned back to the mirror. “I rather think I did.”
Brady would have blushed if all of his blood hadn’t been rushing elsewhere. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees, hoping to disguise the effect she had on him. With a poor attempt at a laugh, he said, “You were fearsomely brave. A dragon. After you left, three of my men had to change their unions.”
She made a face at the mirror. “Easy to be brave with you standing behind me.”
“It’s never easy to be brave.”
The seriousness of his tone caught her attention. She turned and looked at him, those whiskey brown eyes both unsure and hopeful, as if she wanted to believe, but wasn’t sure if she should.
He let his expression show her the truth. “I’m proud of you, Jessica.”
Her chin wobbled. Blinking hard, she raised a hand to cover it. He was relieved when she found her smile again. “I’m proud, too.” Then she laughed and twirled, arms thrown out, her teeth showing in a wide, openmouthed smile. “I did it! I ran him off forever!”
Brady watched her, emotion clogging his throat, thankful that he had a part in bringing her such joy. He would bring her anything—do anything—to see that smile and hear that laughter every day for the rest of his life.
Jesus, I love this woman.
The twirling stopped. “I must get Adrian.” She rushed toward the door, stopped, whirled, and rushed back toward him. Before he knew her intent, she grabbed his face in both hands and pressed her lips against his. “Thank you,” she said and kissed him again. Then before he could gather his senses and grab hold of her, she tore out the door, a whirlwind in calico, taking with her all the air and joy from the room.
Dazed, Brady blinked at the empty doorway and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.
DINNER WAS A CELEBRATION. BRADY ASKED BUCK AND IANTHA to join them, and soon everyone was talking at once and serving dishes were flying around the table like horses at a racetrack. Choking on laughter, Jessica regaled the newcomers with a recounting of her confrontation with Crawford and his dive into the rose bed.
Brady enjoyed watching her and seeing that glow of happiness bring out the freckles across her cheeks. He wondered if she wore freckles everywhere, or only where the sun touched her skin, and decided he’d have to check. Soon. The thought made him grin.
He looked around the table at these people who were so much a part of his life. His family. His woman. He glanced at the corner where Ben slept. His son. This was his purpose. To protect these people and watch over the ranch. And now, with Jessica and Ben in his family, his life would be complete.
But not yet. Not while Sancho was out there gunning for him. Not while she was still recovering from childbirth and celebrating her victory over Crawford. He’d give her time, let her heal in body and spirit, before he asked her to yoke herself to him forever. Meanwhile, he would end this thing with Sancho so they could both start anew.
A couple of weeks. A month at most. Then it would all be over—or just beginning. Either way, everything would change.
Eighteen
JESSICA FLOATED THROUGH THE DAYS IN A EUPHORIC DAZE. All of her senses seemed sharper, as if a veil of gloom had been lifted from her life, and every morning she awoke invigorated.
It helped that Adrian’s feeding schedule eased from every three hours to almost five. He grew so fast, each day brought new discoveries, new advances. In her purely objective opinion, he was without doubt the handsomest and cleverest boy in the entire world.
Iantha showed her an ingenious way of draping a cloth sling across her shoulder and around her waist so she could carry Adrian against her body while keeping her hands free. No longer confined to the bedroom, she took it upon herself to clear some of the clutter from the hallways and organize the chaos of the armory-dining room. Within a week, she felt recovered enough to relieve Iantha and Consuelo of most of the cooking chores, allowing them more time with their own families. Every day she felt stronger, and every day was a joy. She wished it could go on forever, but knew she couldn’t rely on charity forever. Soon she would have to leave. But until Dr. O’Grady pronounced her recovered enough to travel, she would grasp what happiness she could.
One afternoon, a month after the birthing and almost three weeks after she had booted Crawford down the road, she settled Adrian on a blanket in a shady corner of the courtyard and began separating and transplanting chives.
It was another cloudless day. The high adobe walls of the courtyard shielded her from the lowering sun, but they also blocked the breeze. Perspiration dampened her hair and made the fabric of her dress cling to her back. Her gloves were so tattered, her fingertips poked through, so she tossed them onto the bench and went to work with the hoe. It felt good to work the earth again, to do something useful. She liked being needed.
She had almost finished, when the gate opened and Brady looked in. “There you are.”
She set the hoe aside as he walked toward her, Bullshot panting at his heels.
He had been very busy lately, moving herds to fresh grass, clearing old watering places, leading night patrols in hopes of crossing paths with Sancho. Over the last week, she had scarcely seen him except for the few times he made it back in time for dinner.
It worried her, the way he drove himself. She understood the tasks he had before him, and recognized the enormity of the responsibilities that rested on his able shoulders. Nonetheless, she was concerned. He looked tired. He might even have lost weight. In addition to that, she missed him—the banter, the teasing, that heart-stuttering smile. And now, as she watched him cross the courtyard, she realized how especially much she missed his kisses, too.
Perhaps she was a wanton, after all. At least where Brady Wilkins was concerned.
“Been looking for you,” he said, coming to a stop beside her.
The hound bounded forward, alm
ost knocking her down with his slobbery greeting. Holding him off with one hand, she shaded her eyes with the other and squinted up at Brady. “Apparently not very hard. I’ve been here all afternoon.”
“Don’t be sassy.” He hunkered beside Adrian and waggled his tiny toe. “He’s starting to look like an actual person.”
“He is an actual person.” Finally managing to push the hound away, she wiped her slimy hands on her apron. “You big drooler.”
“Only around you. Oh, you mean Bullshot.” He winked—actually winked—at her. “And speaking of droolers.” He made a face at Adrian. “This one needs fresh drawers.” He glanced over, his gaze tracing a slow, sweet trail from her head to the scuffed slippers showing beneath the hem of her skirt. “You look a little ripe yourself.”
Jessica almost snorted. He was so dusty his mustache looked more brown than black, his shirt was rimed with dried sweat, and he smelled worse than his dog. She was about to bring that to his attention when he pulled a packet from his back pocket.
“Bought these in Val Rosa.” He shoved Bullshot away from Adrian, and handed her the package. “Thought you might like something other than roses.”
She opened the bundle to find several smaller packets inside. Flower seeds. Marigold, morning glory, snapdragon, and aster. She was so surprised, she didn’t know what to say.
“Iantha said it’s a little late, but if you plant them now, you’ll have flowers in the fall.”
Jessica looked up at him. Did he expect her to be here then? Did she want to be here then? Confusion sent heat rushing up her neck. “Thank you,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I shall plant them straightaway.”
“Later. I’m hungry. Anything left to eat?”
She tucked the packets into her apron pocket. “I can probably put together something.”
“Good. We’ll take it to the swimming hole. Bring Ben. We can take a dip to clean up, then have a picnic supper. What do you say?”
“I don’t swim. Nor do I bathe outdoors.”
“You’ll like it.” He steered her toward the house. “Pack a picnic basket. Bring clean clothes and a blanket. I’ll wait here with Ben.”