“George. George Adrian Thornton.”
He looked puzzled. “I thought he was your brother.”
Too late Jessica realized her mistake. If she was a widow and George was her brother, how could they carry the same surname? “My brother-
in-law
.” Even worse. She couldn’t live with a man who wasn’t blood kin. She was hopeless at lying.
Apparently he came to the same realization. His eyes grew as cold as two chips of ice. “That dog won’t hunt. Let’s try again, and this time the truth. Who’s in Socorro?”
She looked away. “I told you. My brother.” At least that part was true.
“And who’s John?”
Her gaze flew to his. How did he know about John Crawford? What had she said? And when? Her throat ached with the need to blurt out the truth. But the truth was such an ugly thing—too ugly to expose to the judgments of others—too ugly even to share with her sister.
Leaning one shoulder against the open doorjamb, Brady Wilkins crossed his arms over his chest. “There was never any husband, was there?”
“Well . . . no.”
She could tell by the subtle shift in his expression that he was drawing conclusions, unwelcome conclusions, the same conclusions most people would draw—that she was wanton, had a lover or perhaps several lovers. The idea sickened her. But before she could even attempt to explain, a voice drifted down the hallway.
“
Querido
.”
A soft, musical voice with a Spanish accent. The woman from the porch.
Wilkins turned. The change in his expression was immediate. Reaching out, he looped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her into the doorway. “Your Ladyship, this is Elena,” he said, smiling down at the woman.
Jessica could only stare. Black up-tilted eyes, a flawless heart-shaped face, a smile that rivaled that of Brady Wilkins. She was easily the most beautiful woman Jessica had ever seen. No wonder he looked at her that way. Ignoring an odd twist in her chest, she smiled back—and somehow managed to keep her surprise from showing when the woman moved into the room. She was terribly crippled, and it was apparent in every halting step that she walked with pain.
“Brady teases, yes? You are called ‘Your Ladyship’?”
Jessica recovered enough to glare at the dolt hovering in the doorway. “Of course not.” She held out her hand. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Thornton.”
The woman took her hand in hers. “I am so happy to meet you, Jessica. And how nice it will be to have another woman at the rancho.”
Her smile was so welcoming, her beautiful eyes so kind, Jessica felt an immediate liking for this lovely woman. “You live here, too?” she asked, delighted at the prospect of having someone new to talk to who might help ease the boredom that chaffed more each day.
“¿
Aquí en el rancho
?
Sí.
All my life. But not at the main house.” Elena released Jessica’s hand and sank down onto the foot of the bed. She aimed a scolding look at Brady Wilkins. “But for now, Brady insists. He is very bossy. He thinks to manage everyone. You agree?”
“I definitely agree.”
The man under discussion smirked.
Elena motioned Wilkins toward the rope-strung chair in the corner. “Sit,
querido
. With your poor feet, you have nothing better to do, yes?”
He seemed reluctant until Elena gave him a look of such familiarity, Jessica felt like an intruder. It was obvious they shared something special, something intimate and rare.
As he positioned the chair so he could prop his injured feet on the windowsill, Elena leaned toward Jessica. In a whisper loud enough for Wilkins to hear, she said, “Make him stay for a long visit. He is much underfoot, and with the
vieja
upstairs making her demands, Consuelo and I are too busy to entertain him.”
Wilkins snorted.
“And you,
querido,
” she said, turning her attention to him, “be nice to your guest.” She added something in rapid Spanish that Jessica didn’t understand.
Apparently Wilkins did, because he blushed. Again. Another miracle for the archbishop.
“And now I must help Consuelo.” With one hand on the footboard, Elena awkwardly pushed to her feet. “I will come tomorrow,
sí
?” she said to Jessica.
“I would like that very much.”
After Elena left, Jessica glanced at Wilkins. He was staring out the window, his elbow propped on the armrest of the chair, his fist braced at his jaw. He seemed miles away.
“She’s very beautiful.”
He sighed and let his arm drop to extend past the end of the armrest. “Yes, she is. The image of her mother, the fabled Rose of RosaRoja.” It didn’t sound like a compliment.
His sleeve was rolled at his elbow, and when she saw the half-healed gouges on his forearm, she suddenly remembered how he’d gotten them. It embarrassed her that she had been so out of control, that she had felt so afraid whenever he was near. Yet now, when she was more helpless than she’d ever been, she wasn’t frightened at all.
Then his words clicked in her mind. “Are you saying Elena is related to the family that lived here before? To that murderer, Sancho Ramirez?”
“His sister.”
“I don’t understand. If his sister is able to put the feud aside, why can’t he?”
“He’s crazy, that’s why. Always has been.”
“Is he a threat to her?”
Wilkins took so long to answer, she thought he intended to ignore the question. Finally, he said, “Elena was six years old the first time I saw her.” He continued to stare out the window as he spoke, his gaze distant, his voice flat. “She was running across the courtyard, crying. Sancho was chasing after her. He had a braided rawhide whip in his hand and was swinging it at her legs. Every time he drew blood, he laughed.” Wilkins turned toward her then, and Jessica saw that same fury in his face she had glimpsed at the stage stop. “So yes, he’s a threat to her.”
“Was there no one to protect her?”
“Maria tried, but Sancho threatened her, too. Her father did nothing. I took the whip away.”
Jessica clenched her hands on the counterpane. “How could her father allow such a thing?”
“Allow it? Hell, he fostered it.” Wilkins turned his gaze back to the window, his expression grim. “The Don collected song birds. Little bright-colored birds the
mestizos
brought up from Mexico. He thought they sang better without distractions, so he blinded them. I think he enjoyed doing it. He did the same with Indio and Apache slaves who tried to run . . . before he turned them over to Sancho to work on. He made Elena and her mother watch. A reminder, I think, of what would happen if they thought to escape.”
Jessica was so shocked she couldn’t find words to express it.
“Like father, like son, they say.”
Horrified, she stared down at her abdomen, wondering if that was true. If her baby was a son, would he be like Crawford? Would she see her rapist in the face of her child?
That thought haunted her as the days passed and her body expanded. She tried to keep it at bay by staying as busy as her condition allowed, sewing until her fingers felt raw and her brain was numb, letting out seams to accommodate her ballooning girth and cutting down her oldest petticoats to make napkins and night sacks for Victoria. Thank goodness Elena often came by to ply her needle and keep her company.
The friendship between the women grew rapidly. Hearing of Elena’s abuse had struck a chord within Jessica, and although they carefully avoided mention of either Jessica’s “lost” husband or Elena’s murderous brother, an invisible bond grew between them.
Melanie helped with the sewing as well. She had a decided flair for design and was able to make Jessica’s altered dresses look quite fashionable. As they stitched, she kept them entertained with dramatic retellings of the dime novels she so fancied. Their chatter and laughter helped pass the hours away and ease the worries that never strayed far from Jessica’s mind.
She had missed female companionship. Until John Crawford had come into their lives, she and Annie had been as close as sisters could be. Afterward, too . . . for a while. When Jessica insisted they live with her at Bickersham Hall after their marriage—it was much too large for one person, after all—Crawford had been so quick to agree she had wondered if such had been his intent all along. If so, she hadn’t minded; she’d just been grateful to have her sister beside her.
But after the children came, things changed. At first Jessica thought Annie was simply preoccupied with her growing family, but gradually she became aware of the growing tension between her sister and Crawford. Always given to sulks, he grew impatient and overbearing, complaining bitterly of the lack of funds and tedium of country life. Annie tried desperately to placate him, but by the time their second child was born, he had all but moved to London.
Jessica had been grateful for the respite from the unrelenting tension. But without Crawford, Annie had seemed to fade into a shadow of herself. He never asked her or the children to accompany him to Town, and as his visits home had grown more volatile and less frequent, Annie’s natural shyness had become fumbling uncertainty under his critical eye.
And the debts had mounted.
And that critical eye had turned to Jessica.
And then the real brutality had begun.
But that was behind her now, and Jessica refused to dwell on it or allow her worries to overshadow the joy in having new friends. She strove for a measure of serenity and calmness, hoping in some way that might communicate itself to the child growing within her and override the evil of the man who fathered it.
She didn’t know how she would have managed without their visits. Surprisingly, at different times both of the younger Wilkins brothers stopped by—although Jessica wondered if they came to see her or the ladies visiting her.
Hank Wilkins rarely spoke, and when he did, even if he addressed Jessica, his attention never wavered from Melanie. It was a bit unnerving. He was so quiet and so well masked by his full beard and shaggy hair, it was difficult to guess what he was thinking. He was certainly intelligent enough to carry on a conversation. The few times Jessica had found his gaze aimed at her, she had almost felt dissected by those dark, assessing eyes. Yet she never felt in danger. She sensed curiosity behind his fierce concentration. And loneliness. It was difficult not to respond to that hint of vulnerability in such a physically powerful man. Melanie must have felt it as well, because she flew to the rafters whenever he was near. Jessica liked him, too. Despite his size and shuttered demeanor, Hank Wilkins made one feel safe and protected, rather than threatened. He calmed her.
Not so with the youngest brother. Jack Wilkins was outrageous, charming, so full of energy he was like a whirlwind through her mind. He and Elena didn’t converse, yet Jessica sensed strong currents between the two. Antipathy or attraction? She couldn’t decide. In many ways he was the opposite of Brady Wilkins. Although they were both tall, Jack was leaner. He was blond, while his brother was dark—volatile and undisciplined, while Brady was tautly controlled. There was no question who held the reins of the family, and no question who chaffed under that restraint. But they both shared that disarming smile, although Brady’s was rarer and for that reason more precious. Jessica wondered if they knew the effect it had on impressionable females. And pregnant spinsters.
Brady, Hank, and Jack. It was too confusing to call them all “Mr. Wilkins,” and after a while, she gave up the pretense. She had fallen so far beyond the bounds of propriety—she was receiving visitors in her bedclothes, for heaven’s sake—what did it matter what she called them? Besides, the brothers seemed oblivious to proper decorum, or perhaps they didn’t remember her name; even the younger two followed Brady’s lead and simply called her “Your Ladyship.” It was disrespectful, improper, and familiar in the extreme.
How refreshing.
Three months. A terribly long time to have to rely on charity from this boisterous and outlandish family. But oddly, Jessica found she wasn’t that anxious to leave.
“TRY THESE.”
Brady looked up from a battered copy of
The Cattleman’s Gazette
to see Hank coming across the porch with a pair of worn boots in his hand.
“You’ll have to double up on socks.” Dropping the boots beside Brady’s chair, he reached down to give Bullshot a scratch.
Brady studied the broken-down leathers. “What’d you do? Drag them behind your horse?”
Hank picked up the boots and started back the way he’d come.
“Okay, okay.” Reaching out, Brady snagged the boots before Hank got out of reach. “I’ll take them. Christ.”
With Hank and Bullshot watching, Brady gingerly worked his sore feet into the oversized boots. Because of the swelling, it was a tight fit, but he managed. After two weeks of sitting in his rocker, scanning the slopes with his eyeglass while Bullshot twitched in dreams and passed wind by his side, Brady had reached the limit of his patience. It was time he went after Sancho. He knew his brothers wouldn’t approve of him tearing off with no plan in mind and no idea where to find the bastard, but he was tired of sitting and doing nothing. So he wouldn’t tell them.
He stood and took a few steps. It still hurt to walk but at least now he could ride. If he didn’t trip and fall on his face first. “Jesus, you got big feet,” he muttered.
“Comes with the territory.”
Brady limped down the porch and back, the hound trailing his heels.
“Why you getting dressed up?” his brother asked when Brady plopped back down into the rocker and the hound settled once again at his feet.
“I’m not getting dressed up.”
Bending, Hank picked up a broken chair part. He studied it a moment, then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his penknife.
“Just because I put on your beat-up old boots doesn’t mean I’m dressing up. Why would you think I’m dressing up?”