Pieces of Sky (31 page)

“
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 should 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.

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.” He 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?”

She glanced up to find Brady studying her. “For now.”

He nodded. But instead of taking him from her arms as he had last night, he went to the door and called for Angelina. After the young woman settled the baby in his cradle, Brady asked her to stay. Then before Jessica knew what he was about, he came back to the bed, scooped her up in his arms, blankets and all, and headed toward the door.

“What are you doing?” she choked out, unaccustomed to being carried. But then she had never met a man who could carry her, or who would have even dared such a thing. Other than Hank and that no-necked blacksmith in Bickersham Village, she had never met anyone of Brady’s size or strength. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

But she wasn’t sure she disliked it either. “I am capable of walking, you know.”

He grinned. “I know, but this is more fun.” He shifted his grip to angle her through the doorway onto the porch. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I did just have a baby.”
Two babies
. “But thank you for noticing.”

He laughed, sending a tingling vibration from his body into hers. “Hell, I notice everything about you, woman.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that.