by Warner, Kaki
Without speaking, Brady swung open the gate for her, closed it behind them, then fell into step beside her as they started down the hill. Wind rushed up the slope, billowing her skirts and peppering them with fine grit. As it swept over the hilltop, the long mesquite pods made a noise like rattling bones—a terrible, lonely sound that echoed the hollow feeling within her heart. In desperation she reached for Brady’s hand.
He glanced over at her, then quickly away. But when she threaded her fingers through his, his hand closed around hers in a tight grip—too tight. She didn’t mind. He was her anchor, her salvation, her hope.
This is the way it’s supposed to be. This is what I want.
And at that moment, like stones once tossed into the air finally falling back to earth, all her scattered thoughts and conflicted emotions tumbled into place, and everything made sense at last.
She didn’t need someone to save her, or shield her, or make all her problems go away. She just needed someone to love her. If she had that, she could do the rest. She just had to make sure he loved her, and that she had the courage to love him back.
And with sudden and sharp clarity, Jessica knew what she had to do.
AS SOON AS THEY REACHED THE HOUSE, BRADY COLLECTED HIS rifle and left to make his rounds, needing to put distance between himself and Jessica. She had him twisting in the wind and he didn’t like it or know what to do about it. He ought to just throw her down and be done with it. The idea had some appeal but not much merit. Hell.
He had already posted guards; Rufus in the barn loft, Putnam by the creek, Langley patrolling the cabins, and Sandoval keeping an eye on the bunkhouse and cookhouse. He was convinced Sancho would make his move soon or not at all.
Unless he was dead.
Jessica might have nicked an artery when she stabbed him, or infection might have pulled him down. They had found no blood trail after the fire, but they could have missed it.
Or Sancho could be waiting for an unguarded moment. He didn’t seem interested in taking the bait Brady had put out there, namely himself, so he might be planning to come to the house again. Brady wanted to be ready if he did.
As he crossed the yard, he glanced up to see Rufus sitting on a crate just inside the opening into the loft. “How’s it going, Ru?” he called out.
“Like a church on Monday, Boss.”
“Is Hank around?”
“He and Jack went to the north pasture to check on a new foal.”
Brady nodded and swung open the barn door. A shadow hurled out of the darkness and would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t been expecting it.
“Down!” he ordered, trying to hold Bullshot off without hurting him or getting either of them tangled in the tie rope. Once he had the animal somewhat under control, he checked the wide bandage around the dog’s ribs. It showed no seepage, so Brady left it alone. Other than a lingering stiffness on the left side, the hound seemed to be healing well.
Brady scratched a floppy ear. “What’d you chew up today?” He glanced around, relieved to note nothing new in the assortment of half-gnawed items strewn across the floor. They had already lost a saddle blanket, a breast collar, a slicker, and an old bridle to the dog’s irritation at being tied up in the barn for so long. “You want out, don’t you, fella?”
The dog whined and pressed against his leg.
“Why not?” He untied the rope, preferring to have the hound’s sharp nose sniffing around the compound than cooped up in the barn. “You can make my rounds with me.” Before the words were out, the hound bounded through the door, nose to the ground.
Brady checked on Sandoval, then swung through the cabins. All was quiet. He enjoyed a slice of Iantha’s sweet tater pie with Buck, then headed down to the creek.
It was his favorite time of day—enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes away, the sky a fiery wash fading behind the mountains, and all around him the scents and sounds of RosaRoja. But tonight, mostly what he noticed was the stillness, like before a lightning storm or a norther blew in, as if the whole world held its breath, waiting. It signaled change of an undisclosed nature, and that always made him nervous.
He found Putnam leaning against the message rock and Bullshot hunting frogs in the reeds by the edge of the creek.
“Almost shot your hound,” Putnam said. “Thought he was a puma the way he tore out of the brush.”
Brady looked in disgust at the dog snuffling and floundering in the water. “I was hoping to use his nose tonight, but he’s probably snorted up so much water he couldn’t even smell Red if he snuck up and kicked him in the butt.”
Putnam laughed. “I don’t know. Red’s pretty ripe. The boys are threatening to toss him on the manure pile to sweeten him up.”
Brady watched cattle moving to water on the opposite bank. They seemed calm, but how smart was a cow? “Things pretty quiet?”
“Quiet enough to hear a mouse fart.”
Brady nodded. Slapping his leg to get the hound’s attention, he said good night and headed back toward the house. Bullshot charged ahead, limping a little more from his exertions but still game. Brady tossed a stick. The hound snatched it from the ground, then stopped dead. His head lowered. The stick fell from his mouth as a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Brady ducked behind a cottonwood, rifle up. He scanned the trail ahead, saw nothing. The hill. Nothing. Thirty yards behind him, Putnam idly tossed rocks into the creek. He glanced back at the hound. Bullshot stood motionless, ears cocked toward the hill, a ridge of hair quivering along his neck and shoulders.
Brady squinted into the fading light. The mesquite tree stood silhouetted against the muted sky, its drooping branches the only things moving in the gentle breeze. He slowed his breathing and listened. Cows, crickets, a bobwhite. Quiet evening sounds, except for Bullshot’s low growl.
Then near the base of the hill something moved.
Brady flattened against the tree trunk, following it with the rifle. Bullshot inched forward, his head tracking the same arc.
From down the valley came a yodeling howl. At the base of the hill, an answering bark.
A coyote. Christ.
Brady let out the breath he’d been holding and lowered the rifle. After a moment, he stepped back onto the trail, slapping his leg to call Bullshot.
The hound came reluctantly, his hackles still up, his head swiveling toward the hill every third stride. Ten yards farther and he was nosing the weeds again. “You’re worthless,” Brady said.
The hound looked up with a grin, then stuck his prized nose into a mouse hole.
Still uneasy, Brady angled toward the corrals. The horses rested quietly, heads drooping, ears relaxed. He went on to the barn. “Hey, Ru.”
Footsteps thudded, then a face peered down from the loft opening. “Yessir?”
“You hear anything?” Brady asked.
“Nothing but you two. Why?”
“Bullshot’s acting strange.”
“He’s a strange dog.”
“Check the hill. Anything odd?”
Ru looked up, then back at Brady. “Nothing. What’s going on?”
Brady watched the hound dig in the straw pile for mice. “Nothing, I guess. But if you hear anything, call out or fire a round. Something feels off.”
“Yessir.”
Retrieving the tie rope from the barn, Brady tied Bullshot to the hitching post beside the door. “Sorry, boy,” he told the pouting hound. “I need every hand I can muster tonight.” With a final pat on the drooping head, he crossed to the porch steps.
At the door, he paused for a final look around.
Ru lounged on the crate in the loft opening. Laughter drifted from the bunkhouse. The horses rested peacefully, and his well-trained watchdog busily gnawed on his rope. Still, that itchy feeling persisted. Maybe he was still strung tight because of Jessica. Or overtired. Or just impatient for Sancho to make his move.
Maybe.
With a sigh, he pushed open the door. What he needed was a dri
nk.
JESSICA STARED IN PANIC AT HER REFLECTION IN THE CHEVAL mirror. Her hair was almost dry from her bath, her robe was buttoned all the way up to her chin, and the face staring back at her had the expression of a felon facing the chopping block.
How could she do this?
How could she go on if she didn’t?
With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the top button on her satin robe. Then two more. She tested a smile. The reflection grimaced back. Pulling two long curls over her shoulders, she spread them out so they covered her breasts.
She practiced smiling, achieving better results each time. Then she heard footsteps moving past her door, followed by the muted thud of the office door closing.
He was back.
It was time.
She felt like laughing, crying, casting up her accounts—as nervous as a fainthearted debutante at her first ball, or a virgin headed for sacrifice. Alas, she was too old for one, and too used for the other.
On trembling legs, she moved silently down the hall, and out onto the porch.
BRADY TIPPED THE NEAR-EMPTY WHISKEY BOTTLE INTO HIS tin cup and cursed Doc for drinking him dry. Again. Could this day get any worse? Sancho lurking out there somewhere, Jack talking about Australia again, Hank itching to get to Fort Union, Elena packing for San Francisco, and Jessica . . . hell, he had no idea what she was doing.
Christ.
He tossed back the last sip, then slapped the cup onto the desktop.
How had it all gone so wrong? It had started out straightforward enough—protect the family, protect RosaRoja, build something he and his brothers could take pride in, then find a strong healthy woman and breed sons to hold it. Simple. But now everything was turning to crap in his hands and he didn’t know how to stop it. What was it all for if there was nobody left but him?
In a sudden burst of frustration, he threw the cup out the porch doorway. An instant later he fired the bottle after it.
To hell with all of them.
JESSICA JUMPED BACK AS A TIN CUP BOUNCED OFF THE PORCH railing. Before it hit the floor, a whiskey bottle sailed by, tumbling end over end into the rose bed. She glanced at the office doorway then back at the cup slowly spinning to a stop at her feet. In a temper, was he? Perversely, she found that more amusing than frightening.
When she deemed there would be no more missiles, she picked up the cup. She smiled. Hopefully, if she didn’t lose courage and bolt for cover, and if he wasn’t in one of those uncommunicative moods that made talking to him such a chore, she might find a way to put the dear man in a better mood.
She pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach, took a bracing breath, then walked into the office.
Brady was staring morosely down at the desk between his propped elbows, the heels of his hands pressed against his throbbing temples, when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He jerked his head up.
Jessica stood in the doorway, the tin cup swinging from one long, graceful finger. “Cleaning out your office, are you?”
He blinked, wondering if he could possibly be drunk on just two sips of whiskey. Her hair was down and she wore a satiny pink robe, and little pink slippers, and not a whole helluva lot else.
Drunk or dreaming.
“Not feeling talkative?” she prodded.
He sat back, watching her move toward him, captivated by the way lamplight played over the shiny cloth like a slow fall of water, highlighting every curve, every dimple and pucker.
What would he do if this woman walked out of his life?
“I left the bottle in the roses.”
He saw the slight tremble in her fingers as she carefully set the cup on the edge of the desk, and wondered if it was because of him. He resolved to keep his mouth shut, to do nothing to scare her off. Swiveling the chair, he watched her move around the desk to peruse the bookcases along the back wall, leaving in her wake a gentle drift of flowery soap and woman.
Her hair hung in silky disarray down her long slim back. Thick chestnut curls swayed with every movement, brushing against gently rounded hips, drawing his eyes to that pear-shaped bottom he’d admired down at the creek. He imagined moving up behind her, sliding the robe off her shoulders, kissing every coppery freckle on that sleek, smooth skin.
His mouth went dry.
Clasping his hands in his lap to hide the effect of his own randy thoughts, he cast about for something to say, something that might intrigue or amuse her, and maybe entice her to take a seat and stay awhile.
“What do you want, Jessica?” he said instead, like a bumbling thirteen-year-old.
She turned. She no longer smiled but wore an expression close to desperation. Even in the lamplight, he could see her color was high, her eyes bright and wide. With fear?
“You.”
He blinked, confused, not sure he’d heard right.
His silence seemed to egg her on. “What happened at the creek was . . . unfortunate. I thought perhaps—if you—if you and I—perhaps we might try again.”
“Like a test?” he asked guardedly, still not sure what she was up to.
“Not precisely.”
“What then? We have a go at it, and if we can get through it without you clawing my face off, then everything’s fine? If not, we’ll know it’s a mistake?” It sounded funnier in his head than it did spoken aloud.
She didn’t seem to find it amusing either. “I can see this was a bad idea.” She swung toward the hall doorway.
“Wait,” he said, bringing her to a stop. “What changed your mind?”
Slowly she turned, her body still poised for flight.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me anymore?” he asked.
An odd look crossed her face. “I was never afraid of you, Brady. How could you think such a thing?”
He couldn’t even respond to that. Had she forgotten what happened at the creek? “You were afraid of something. If not me, then what?”
“Of being smothered. You were on top of me. I couldn’t breathe.”
He frowned, even more confused. Other than one knee over her thighs, he hadn’t been on top of her. Knowing he probably outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, he’d been careful not to put his full weight on her. How had he smothered her?
Something didn’t add up. He studied her, watched her rub her wrists like she did at the creek, as if spiders were crawling along her arm. “What did he do to you, Jessica? Did he tie you?” In light of his own aversion to confinement, he couldn’t image many things worse than being tied and helpless.
As if realizing her hands had betrayed her, she quickly clasped them together, her fingers laced so tight, her knuckles lost color. “Why are we discussing this?”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“Fine. Yes. He tied me then climbed on top of me and raped me. Satisfied?”
Silence. She stared down at her pink slippers. He stared at her, while pictures formed in his head—terrible, awful pictures that sent fury pounding through his veins. He wished Crawford was still here so he could beat him until bones shattered under his hands, then revive him and do it again.
“Why are you doing this, Brady? Why do we have to talk about this now?”
When she lifted her head, her eyes glistened in the lamplight, filled with that never-forgotten terror he had stupidly forced her to relive again. It shamed him. He looked away, tried to bring his anger under control. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We won’t talk about it again.” He didn’t think he could bear to hear more anyway. He took a deep breath, then held out his hand. “Come here.” He put on a smile to reassure her.
Hesitantly—reluctantly—she came toward him until she was close enough that he could reach out and take her hand. From there it was just a tug to get her onto his lap. After the stiffness left her shoulders and she allowed herself to lean against him, he kissed her temple and said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. You were propositioning me.”
“I was not propositioning you.”
“Seducing, then.”
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She sat up. “If you’re going to be difficult . . .”
“Difficult?” He had to laugh. “Hell, I’m so easy it’s embarrassing.” He pulled her back down. “Okay. I’m seduced. Now what?”
She didn’t respond.
But his cock did, opportunistic bastard that he was. There were only a few things sweeter to a man than having a woman’s soft bottom nestled in his lap, and Brady planned to enjoy them all before this night ended. “So what’s the plan?”
“I have no plan.”
“No? Well, maybe I can come up with one.” He had several in mind, in fact. He started by nuzzling her neck. She seemed to like that, so he kept at it, improvising as he went until his heart thundered in his ears and the back of his neck started to sweat. “It’s stuffy in here,” he said, finally coming up for air. “Don’t you want to take off that hot robe?”
“No.”
“You feel hot.”
“I feel fine.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get overheated.”
“Can we please not talk anymore and just . . . do . . . whatever?”
Music to a man’s ear. Without giving her a chance to change her mind, he leaned forward to blow out the lamp, then gathered her in his arms and stood.
Suddenly the enormity of what was about to happen unnerved him. She had placed all her fear and trust and hope in his hands. A wrong move would be ruinous. It was enough to shrivel a man’s resolve.
He looked down at her, trying to read in her face what she was feeling.
She stared back, so pale her eyes looked like two drops of dark rye whiskey in a bowl of strawberry-tinted cream.
“You sure this is what you want?” he asked, wondering what he would do if she changed her mind.
“It’s what I want.” To prove it, she slid her arms around his neck.
Thank you, Jesus.
Trying not to run, Brady carried her out the door and down the hall.
Twenty-one
“BE CAREFUL NOT TO WAKE ADRIAN,” JESSICA WARNED AS Brady lifted a foot to kick open the door to his-her-their bedroom.