“Hell, yes, write to him. Do whatever you can.” Brady would give anything to have Elena whole again. He’d tried to send her to doctors in the past, but she wouldn’t go. As he rose and loaded cartridges for his Sharps .50 into his pocket, he wondered what had motivated her to do it now. Or was this just a way to leave, as she’d always threatened to do?
“It’ll be costly, I’m thinking.”
“I don’t care.” He’d find a way. This was the most hopeful news he’d had in a long time, although he didn’t like the idea of Elena heading off to San Francisco. But if she did, it might just be the prod he’d been looking for to get his skirt-chasing little brother off his butt and on the right track. “Write to him today.”
THE SWEEP MET WITH ONLY MARGINAL SUCCESS.
Late the first day, a soldier brought news that a man’s charred carcass had been found in the canyon Sancho had set afire several days earlier. Since he wasn’t one of Brady’s men, he must have been with Sancho. Which meant that unless Sancho had recruited more men, his group of five was down to four.
Then Doc sent word that a man with a festering bullet wound and a gangrenous leg had wandered into Val Rosa, delirious with fever and babbling about Sancho. Doc tried to save him, but the infection had spread too far. So now there were three.
The second day, Brady and his men came across a small band of Mimbreno Apaches, mostly women and children and a few old men, remnants of Mangas Colorado’s copper mine tribe. It was ranch custom, dating back to when Mangas supplied Jacob’s regiment with horses and mules during the Mexican war, to allow friendly hostiles free trespass across RosaRoja as they migrated to and from the Sierra Madres in Mexico. After Mangas died in ’63, Geronimo had continued the truce. Consequently, RosaRoja hadn’t lost a single man to Indians in almost twenty years. Such a policy might cost a few steers every spring and autumn, but if it spared RosaRoja the carnage other ranches suffered, Brady considered it a small price to pay.
He held parley with a couple of the old men. Although they hadn’t noticed riders the last few days, right after the rain, they’d seen fresh tracks in the mud at Cedar Creek. A single rider, shod horse, heading south toward Mexico. One of Sancho’s men cutting out on his own? If so, the band was down to two—Sancho and Paco. Good odds for a gunfight. Not so good for tracking; five men left a sloppier trail than two. After gifting them a steer, Brady accepted a beaded pouch in return, then continued the sweep.
Nothing. Two days and over two hundred square miles covered, and still no sign of Sancho. They were either looking in the wrong place, or the bastard had slipped past them.
On the third morning, Jarvey and Rikker called their men off the search. With promises to stay alerted, the other ranchers left, too. RosaRoja was on its own. So frustrated he could bite through whang leather, Brady led his men home.
All he could do now was wait for the bastard to hit again.
Twelve
THE DAYS GREW HOTTER, THE NIGHTS SHORTER. AFTER A week with no sign of Sancho, an uneasy peace settled over the ranch.
Jessica’s life fell into a comfortable but busy routine. Rising before dawn, she fed the chickens and gathered eggs, then helped Consuelo and Elena put together a huge breakfast for the brothers—beef steaks, game sausage, eggs, grits, potatoes with sausage gravy, flapjacks with honey, stewed dried fruit, biscuits, tortillas, a half loaf of Iantha’s sour-dough bread, accompanied by some of the bitterest, strongest coffee Consuelo could make. They took on food the way a locomotive took on coal—by the shovel full and as quickly as possible.
On bread days, she helped Iantha bake the dozen loaves the household would need throughout the week. Then she would help Elena and Consuelo plan and gather whatever would be necessary for the evening meal. The brothers rarely came in for luncheon, but in case they did, Consuelo always had a big pot of chili warming on the stove.
Then if there was any time left before the day grew too hot, Jessica worked in the garden as best she could with her expanding girth. Elena recognized her predicament and, through Brady, arranged for several of the ranch children to help her with the weeding and bending and carrying. While they worked, Jessica taught them English words and they taught her Spanish. The children found these lessons most entertaining and often dissolved in helpless giggles at her efforts at pronunciation.
She was astounded by the vastness of RosaRoja, both in space and operation. The ranch was like a living entity, never sleeping, driven by the pulse beat of thousands of lives. Over eighty-eight thousand acres. It was almost beyond imagining. Yet Elena assured her it was a small holding compared to the huge ranches in Texas and the enormous herds John Chisum held at Bosque Grande, south of Fort Sumner.
“It is not Brady’s dream to have the biggest rancho,” Elena told her one morning as they lingered over a late breakfast. “But to have the best. He wants RosaRoja beef to be the finest in the West.”
Jessica had no doubt Brady would make it into a reality. “Why did he never marry?” she asked. “I would think it important to a man like Brady to have sons follow in his footsteps.”
Elena shrugged. “For many years Jacob spoke of Brady taking the oldest daughter of Tom Logan to wife. It would have been a joining of two ranches as well as old friends. But after Jacob died, Brady was so busy holding his family and the rancho together, there was no time for courting. Several years ago Sara Logan married Tom Burkett, another rancher, and moved to Taos.”
“Did that upset Brady?”
Again Elena shrugged. “He gives so much of himself to RosaRoja there is little left to give a wife. I am sad for him. He has seen more heartbreak than joy between a man and a woman, and I think that has turned his mind against marriage. But the land”—she made a grand gesture with one hand, even as her voice took on a wry note—“the land will never let him down, will it?”
Jessica studied the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. “Perhaps he sees a wife and children as simply another burden.”
“Or perhaps he thinks all women are
débil
—fragile—like his mother. Or faint of heart—like mine. He has known few strong women.”
Jessica looked up with a smile, thinking again what a beautiful couple Elena and Brady would have made. “He has known you.”
“And now you,” Elena added slyly.
Jessica looked away, uncomfortable under those knowing black eyes.
But Elena was relentless. “You care for him, yes?”
“I am very grateful, of course.”
“And you need a strong man to protect you and your babies,
sí
?” What she needed was to stop any ill-conceived matchmaking efforts. “I will never marry, Elena,” she said with quiet conviction.
“You loved your husband so much?”
Hearing the concern in Elena’s voice, she realized she didn’t want to deceive this woman who had been such a good friend to her. She didn’t want walls or unspoken lies to come between them. “There was no husband, Elena.”
“No
esposo
?”
“My sister’s husband . . . forced me.” The words didn’t come as hard this time and, with this telling, brought more anger than fear.
“
Lo siento mucho, pobrecita
.” Tears flooding her eyes, Elena reached over to grip Jessica’s hand. “I am so sorry.”
Jessica waited for the shame to come, but it didn’t, and when she looked into Elena’s eyes, she saw only sympathy and sadness. That acceptance bought up such a well of gratitude, she had to look away.
After a moment Elena released her hand. Rising, she retrieved the pot of hot water from the stove. “Your sister knows of this?” she asked, refilling Jessica’s cup.
“I never told her. She loves him. Besides, what could she have done?”
Elena returned the pot of hot water, brought the one containing coffee to the table, and refilled her cup. “Will you tell her of
los bebés
?”
“Someday I shall have to.” That familiar sense of shame sent heat into her face. “You think me cowardly for running away and leaving her with that man.”
Elena set the coffeepot back on the stove and returned to her seat. “No,
mi amiga
. I think you are very brave. You chose to protect your babies, did you not? You could not have done that had you stayed.”
If only she were that selfless. But terror strips away everything—hope, reason, even love. Ultimately, all that’s left is the need to escape. If she had been protecting anyone, it had been herself. How brave was that? “I am shamed to say that at the time I thought only of myself. I was so very afraid.”
“And you still are.”
This was too hard, too uncomfortable. Just thinking about it awakened that suffocating feeling of panic.
“That is why you fear men,
sí
?”
“Some men.” But a little less every day.
“
Yo comprendo.
Because of what this man did, it makes you feel less than you were.”
Jessica swirled her cup, watched the leaves slowly settle. “In many ways, yes.” How could a woman suffer such a thing and not lose part of her soul?
She felt Elena watching her and wondered how she could gracefully change the subject. Her friend was too astute, her questions too pointed. Jessica was starting to feel raw from all the probing. But before she could steer the conversation in a more comfortable direction, Elena sighed and patted her hand. “You are ashamed, even though in your mind you know it was not your fault. I know this because I feel the same.”
“You do?” Jessica looked at the other woman with surprise. “Because of what Sancho did? That’s absurd, Elena.”
“I know that here.” Elena tapped her temple with one long graceful finger. “But in my heart I am not so sure. I look at my damaged body and feel unworthy. ¿
Tú también
?”
Unworthy? The word shocked her. Then Jessica realized it was true. She had been marked by a man’s violence. Because she saw herself in those terms—
identified
herself in those terms—she expected everyone else to see her that way, too. But what if she were wrong? What if she truly were as blameless as Brady and Elena seemed to think?
With a wistful smile, Elena set her empty cup aside. “No woman wants to go to a man she loves crippled in spirit or body. In the eyes of our lovers we wish to be perfect. To be less makes us feel unworthy.” Wiping her palms down her aproned thighs, she awkwardly rose, putting as little weight as possible on her injured hip. “But you,
mi amiga
, will someday heal. And perhaps soon . . . I will also.”
Jessica gave her a sharp look. “What are you talking about? Your hip? Did Dr. O’Grady say something about your hip?” Elena’s sly expression told her she was on the mark. Bolting to her feet, she gripped Elena’s shoulders. “Can he fix it?”
Elena laughed. “
Quizás
—maybe. He writes to a doctor in the Californias.”
“Oh, Elena, what if he could? Does Brady know?”
Elena nodded, then raised a cautionary finger. “But no one else. ¿
Comprendes?
For now no one must know but you and Brady and the doctor.”
Not Jack? Was Elena worried about raising his hopes . . . or her own? “Oh, Elena, how wonderful it would be if he could fix it!”
“
Sí
. So many possibilities. For both of us.”
“I FEEL LIKE A CUP OF TEA,” JESSICA SAID SEVERAL DAYS LATER as she rose from the table. “Will you join me?”
Elena gave a tentative smile. “I have never had tea.”
“No? Then you must.”
It had become a cherished morning ritual—a late breakfast with Elena after they completed their early chores. Jessica had shared a similar time with her sister at Bickersham Hall. Tea on the terrace on sunny days, or in the morning room when the weather turned. Lovely times. She missed them dearly.
An idea came. Smiling, she motioned to Elena to remain seated, and swept from the room. After retrieving the small wooden crate from her bedroom, she returned to the kitchen. “We shall have a proper tea,” she announced, setting the box in the center of the table. “With proper cups, and India tea, just like a proper garden tea and—oh wait!”
Dashing back to her room, she plucked two of her more elaborate hats from their bandboxes and returned to the kitchen. “And what garden tea would be complete without the proper attire?”
Laughing, she held out the hats. “Which would you prefer? The green or blue?” Before Elena could answer, Jessica settled one of the hats on Elena’s dark hair, then took it off and replaced it with the other. “Definitely the blue. It so brings out the roses in your cheeks, my dear,” she added with a haughty aristocratic accent. “La, you look quite the thing,”
Elena lifted her hand to her mouth, but couldn’t stifle her laugh. “
Estás loca, mi amiga
.”
After setting her green hat, with its wide brim and pleated satin underlining, at a jaunty angle on her head, Jessica tended Elena’s chapeau, tying the long organza scarf into a fluffy bow by her ear and leaving the trailing ends to drape across her shoulders. “Perfect. Now if you will set out the cups, I shall boil a pot for the tea.”
“These cups are very beautiful,” Elena said, running her fingertip along the fluted edge. “They come from your home, yes?”
“They belonged to my great-grandmother. Henrietta Louise,
Lady
Bottomsley of Bickersham Hall.” Jessica made a grand flourish, then dipped in a curtsy that would have made any debutante proud. “A woman of great consequence, I assure you. Despite the fact that she was only a baronet’s wife, Grandmother Henrietta Louise could out-snob the most arrogant aristocrat. I loved her dearly. Annie and I had the grandest time dressing up in her fripperies when we were children. I daresay she was the inspiration for the most flamboyant of my hats.” Lifting the pot from the stove, she swept toward Elena. “Tea is served, my dear,” she said as she filled the dainty cups.