by Warner, Kaki
“About what?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. She wanted this man. She craved what he offered. But as comfortable a place as it might be, she wasn’t sure she wanted to live in Brady’s shadow forever. So she retreated to safer ground. “If Jack finally goaded you into it.” She said it with a smile, hoping to ease the undercurrents weighting the air between them.
He didn’t smile back. “Jack had nothing to do with it. In fact, he made it harder. If I’d said anything the other night, what would you have thought?”
“That Jack had goaded you into it.”
“Exactly.”
“But by saying nothing at all, you made me think you had no interest.”
He smiled crookedly. “Then you’re a spoke short. I’ve been interested from the first.”
“Even after I tried to geld you?” she said, trying to tease the tension away.
“Well, once the pain stopped.” He sat up and opened the leather food pouch. “You got my attention, I’ll give you that.”
“Ah, so it worked.”
He looked over at her, that shuttered look back in his eyes. “You’re still dodging. Why?”
She reached down to brush a fly from Adrian’s cheek. “I’m concerned. We’re so different. I worry that we don’t suit.” Or that you will never love me as much as I love you. Or that I will lose myself in you, and forget who I am. He was such a dominant, dominating man.
He gave her a sidewise look that told her he wasn’t buying it. “You have doubts?”
She shrugged. “Some, perhaps.”
“About me?” Before she could answer, he added, “I know I’m a bit rough, but I can change. I’ll even shave more often and try to quit cussing, if that’s what you want.”
He sounded nervous and that surprised her. She didn’t think anything could make Brady Wilkins nervous. “I don’t want you to change, Brady. Ever. Except perhaps for the cursing.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Time. When I met you, I was a frightened, twenty-six-year-old pregnant spinster hiding behind her Rules of Deportment and overblown hats. Since then I almost died on the desert. I birthed two children and buried one. I’ve been run to ground and have risen up fighting.” She lifted her free hand in a helpless gesture. “I’ve changed. I scarcely know who I am anymore. I need time to find out.”
He studied her for a long while, as if seeking a deeper meaning behind her words.
She wondered if Brady ever had doubts. He radiated so much confidence it probably never occurred to him to question who he was or what he should do.
“I can’t change what happened in the past, Jessica,” he finally said. “But I can promise you a better future. When you’re thinking, think about that.” He turned back to the pouch. “How hungry are you?”
Apparently he suffered no lingering disappointments, she thought, watching him paw through the food pouch. How convenient to have everything so simple, and all one’s thinking set up in neat little compartments. How comfortable to have no doubts. But then, his pragmatic self-assurance was one of the things she admired most about this complicated and confounding man.
After carrying her sleeping son back to his shady resting place, Jessica returned to sit on the blanket beside Brady. “You haven’t eaten?” she asked, taking the pouch from his hands.
“I was waiting for you.”
Both Brady and his hound perked up as soon as she began pulling food from the bag. Smoked ham, roast beef, a tin of peaches, an entire loaf of bread, two chicken legs, a completely mashed half a rhubarb pie, and one rather soft apple. A feast indeed.
As they ate, the earlier tension eased into a comfortable silence. Letting herself relax, Jessica put her worries aside as she watched Brady try to keep the hound under control by locking the dog’s head between his knees and doling out tidbits and dire threats in alternating intervals.
“You need to discipline that dog,” she said, more amused than irritated.
He dangled a piece of ham before Bullshot’s nose. “He’s just a pup.”
“He’s gray at the muzzle. As are you, I might add.”
That brought his head around. “You saying I’m old?”
“Seasoned, perhaps.”
“I’m just reaching my prime. I got plenty of go left in me. Want to see?” And before she knew what was happening, he had her on her back, one heavy thigh thrown over her legs.
She stiffened, shocked by the suddenness of his assault, by the weight of his big body pressing down on hers.
“Relax. I won’t bite.” He nibbled at her earlobe. “Well, maybe a little.” Leaning up on one elbow, he looked down to watch his hand move over her body, sliding from her neck, blatantly over her breast, and on to her hip.
Fear scurried through her mind. She tried not to think of other hands touching her, a different body holding her down. “W-What are you doing?”
He lifted his head and pinned her with those compelling eyes. “Trying to show you.”
This time he watched her face as his hand retraced its path from her hip, back up to cup her breast. “We may not suit in some things,” he said, his fingers tracing a gentle circle that sent her mind bouncing between fear and desire. “But in this we do.” His head came down, his mouth seeking hers.
Sound receded. Sight narrowed. For a moment, time hung suspended. All she could hear was her own frenetic pulsebeat and all she could see was him—so big he blocked the sun, so heavy he drove the air from her lungs. She reminded herself that it was Brady, that she was safe and he wouldn’t hurt her. But other memories sent fear skittering along her nerves. She put a hand on top of his, whether to stop him or encourage him, she wasn’t sure.
Terror built.
It felt like drowning. Dying. Being tied and smothered.
Twisting her head to the side, she struggled to draw a full breath—couldn’t—and panic exploded. “No!” She bucked against him, heels digging into the blanket. “Stop! Get off!”
And suddenly the weight was gone.
She lurched upright, gasping, rubbing frantically at her wrists as she battled to drag air into her aching lungs.
“What the hell . . . ?”
She caught movement, saw his hand coming toward her, and before she could stop herself, she jerked back. “Just—just give me a m-minute.”
His hand dropped away. Abruptly, he stood and walked to a cottonwood at the edge of the glade. He kept his back to her, his wide shoulders rising and falling with his own labored breathing as he adjusted his clothing. She knew what he was doing and why, and it shamed her that she had brought them both to this point. How could she let this happen?
Curse you to hell, John Crawford!
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to shut her mind to that hateful presence. Why wasn’t she strong enough to keep him out of her head? She touched her arms, half expecting to feel the bands still encircling her wrists. But he had known silk would leave no permanent marks.
“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely.
Brady made a harsh sound, almost, but not quite a laugh. Bracing one hand on the tree trunk, he leaned over and spit, as if needing to rid himself of the taste of her.
“You’re so heavy,” she said in a faltering voice. “I couldn’t breathe. All I could think about was when he—”
“Don’t!” He whirled, his eyes terrible in their fury, his mouth a slash of clenched teeth beneath his dark mustache. “Don’t you ever confuse me with him!”
“I’m not! I couldn’t. But every time I close my eyes—”
“Then open them! See me, not him.” He stalked toward her, hurt and anger vibrating with every step. “I’ve tried every way I know, Jessica, to show you that of all the people in your life, I’m the one you can trust. I’m the one who’ll protect you. Me!” He slammed his fist so hard against his chest, she could hear the hollow thump of it from three feet away. “For once look past your fear. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”
Shame crushed her. Sh
e never meant to hurt him. But she didn’t know how to stop the fear, how to make him understand. “I know. I want to, Brady. I try to control it, but it’s always there.” She pushed the heels of her hands against her temples, trying to stop the whirlwind in her mind. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
“Find a way. Conquer it, or it conquers you.”
“I’m trying, Brady.”
“Try harder!”
She pressed her lips tightly together, desperate to keep the anguish from bursting free in hysteria. Her emotions were in such disarray, she couldn’t find the words she so desperately wanted to say, didn’t know how to make him understand. Mutely, she looked up at him, unshed tears thick in her throat. Why couldn’t she open her mind to him as easily as she had opened her heart? Why couldn’t she love him like she wanted to? “Try to understand, Brady. Please.”
Some of the tension left him. He closed his eyes. For a moment his expression was that of a man battling a frustration so baffling and profound, he couldn’t find words to express it. Then he exhaled and opened his eyes. The anger was gone, replaced by weary resignation. “I do understand, Jessica. I just don’t know what to do about it.”
She could feel him drifting away, and that aroused a new kind of panic. “Just give me a bit more time. I’ll get past this, Brady. I promise.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it. He knelt beside her and, with savage efficiency, began repacking the portmanteau. “We better go. Mosquitoes will be out soon.” After tossing the food scraps into the brush, he sat back on his heels and looked around. “Where’s Bullshot?”
Battling tears and heartache, she picked up Adrian. “He was here a moment ago.”
From the direction of the house came the hound’s deep bark.
“Perhaps he’s on the trail of something,” she offered lamely, saddened that they had retreated into such inane conversation.
“Chickens.”
He stuffed Adrian’s blanket into the portmanteau and stood, the luggage in one hand, the leather food bag in the other. Both hands full. She wondered if he did that intentionally, so he wouldn’t have to touch her. The thought hurt more than she could have imagined.
They walked in silence up the grassy trail, and with every step she felt the distance between them grow. After carrying the portmanteau to her room, he left to tend his chores. Or so he said.
She went numbly about her own tasks of putting Adrian to bed, unpacking the portmanteau, braiding her wet hair, and changing out of her wet shoes. Then because she was too restless to sit, she went to the courtyard to gather the gloves and bonnet she had left earlier.
The quiet solitude of the garden fitted her mood. Sinking onto one of the stone benches, she let the stillness of the evening soothe her battered spirit. How could she fix this? What was wrong with her that she would allow fear to overshadow trust, even love?
A sound caught her attention—a soft whimper.
Glancing around, she saw movement in the shadows along the back wall. She rose and moved toward it, poised to flee if it was one of those Gila monster lizards, or some feral animal that had found its way past the courtyard gate.
It was Bullshot.
Even in the fading light, she could see the bloody wound on his side. Murmuring softly, she reached out, then snatched her hand back when he snarled, eyes wild in pain. Realizing she needed help, she rushed across the courtyard.
She was almost to the gate when she heard a crash then a woman’s cry coming from one of the rooms that opened onto the covered walkway skirting the courtyard. Elena’s room. Every instinct told her to run, that something terrible was happening in that room.
Instead, she threw back her head and screamed for Brady as loudly as she could. Then she grabbed the gardening hoe she had left propped beside the gate and raced toward Elena’s door.
The room was dim, lit by a single lamp on the dresser, but there was enough light to see the hunched form on top of Elena and the terror on her face as she fought him. Jessica ran toward the bed, hoe raised. She brought it down across his back with such force the dry wood splintered and the shaft broke in two.
With a guttural cry, he swung out and knocked the broken hoe from her grip.
She raced after it.
He reached it first and kicked it away, then kicked at her as she bolted for the door.
She went down hard, saw him raise his leg, and rolled to the side as his boot slammed to the floor beside her head. Grabbing the broken handle, she swung blindly as she struggled to get up.
A glancing blow sent her down again. He came toward her, snarling and cursing. She scrambled back, the handle in her hand, waiting for him to lift his foot to kick her again. When he did, she drove the jagged end of the splintered hoe into his other leg.
With a cry, he staggered back, clawing at the stick impaled in his thigh.
“Elena, run!” she screamed. Wildly scanning the room, she saw the other woman huddled in the corner by the bed, her face streaked with blood. “Run!”
Shrieking in Spanish, the man started toward Elena, then froze when voices rose outside. As he turned toward the door, Jessica saw his face—the scraggly beard, the crazed look in those dark almond-shaped eyes that were so like Elena’s—and realized it was her brother, Sancho.
Elena cowered as he turned toward her. But instead of renewing his attack, he grabbed the lamp from the dresser and threw it against the door.
The lamp shattered, sending arcs of liquid fire shooting throughout the room. Flames exploded, engulfing the wood, the wall. As Sancho lunged for the window, the bedding caught fire, then the curtains. Elena began to scream.
Jessica crawled toward her, saw Elena’s gown was on fire, and tore it free. Grabbing the injured woman around the waist, she dragged her toward the door. Flames blocked their way. Coughing, she crawled toward the window.
Heat built. She couldn’t breathe. The smoke was already so thick she could scarcely see. Elena went limp in her arms.
Then suddenly the door exploded inward, and men rushed into the room. Hands grabbed at her. “Take Elena,” she rasped, shoving her friend forward. “She’s hurt.”
Then her vision dimmed as arms lifted her from the floor.
Nineteen
A MOMENT LATER SHE FOUND HERSELF STRETCHED ON THE ground in the courtyard, staring up into a smoky starlit sky and Brady’s scowling face.
“Damn you, woman! Are you hurt?”
She might have taken offense if his voice hadn’t been shaking and his face hadn’t looked so pale beneath the sooty smudges. He still cared. She hadn’t ruined everything after all. She tried to reassure him, but the effort to speak sent her into a fit of coughing. Propping up her head, he thrust a cup of water into her face and commanded her to drink.
She tried, but his hand trembled so much, most of the water spilled down her chin. When she finished, he lowered her back down rather than help her sit up, which was for the best, since even the smallest movement made her wooly-headed.
“How can you be so goddamned stupid?”
“I thought you were going to stop cursing,” she managed in a raspy voice, then frowned when she saw the redness on the back of his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“You could have gotten killed!”
“I knew you would come. It was Sancho. He was hurting Elena. When I saw him on top of her, I . . . did he . . . is she hurt?”
“He hit her, that’s all. Bruised and a few blisters, but she’s okay.”
How can a woman ever be okay after an assault like that?
He must have anticipated her other concerns because he quickly supplied answers to her unspoken questions. “The fire’s out, Hank’s working on Bullshot, and Angelina’s with Ben.”
“Sancho?”
That look came over his face, the one that had made Oran Phelps sweat and John Crawford scurry like a crab across hot rocks. “He left through the window. We were more worried about getting you and Elena out than chasing after him.�
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“I stabbed him.” She shuddered, remembering the sound of the stick going into his flesh. “In the leg. He was bleeding.”
“You’re safe now.”
She pushed herself upright, wincing at the sharp pull of bruised muscles. He helped her to the garden bench, then once she was settled, he began to pace, his hands working at his sides. “Jesus, how could I have let this happen? He was in the house, for chrissakes! He could have killed her.” He whirled, his eyes frantic and furious. “Or you. From now on, don’t leave the house without at least two men with you. Don’t even come into the courtyard or—”
“Brady, stop! Don’t do this to yourself. This was not your fault.”
He lifted his hands in agitation. “I’m in charge. How can it not be my fault?”
“Please. Sit. You make me dizzy with all your pacing.”
Reluctantly, he sat. Bracing his elbows on his thighs, he clasped his hands tightly between his knees.
She studied him for a moment. As she did, she realized something that had eluded her, the most important piece to the puzzle of who he was and why he made the choices he did. He was afraid. Afraid of failing, of being found unworthy, of opening his heart to forgiveness and love. He had already lost so much, it terrified him to think that it might be his mistake, his weakness, that would cause further loss.
“Things happen, Brady,” she said quietly. “Evil men disrupt our lives. People we love die. Stagecoaches crash and we survive, while others do not. You cannot anticipate everything.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you so eager to take the blame when anything bad does happen?”
He looked over at her. “What’re you talking about?”
“What happened tonight. Elena’s hip. Sam’s death.”
His mouth flattened into a thin, grim line.
She pushed on, determined to say it all. “You’re not expected to be everywhere, Brady. Or think of everything, or foresee every danger or pitfall. It’s impossible. Especially when a madman like Sancho Ramirez is involved.”
“It’s my job,” he muttered, staring at his clenched hands.