Pieces of Sky by Kaki Warner

around them in the still air. “I’ve told you all there is to tell.” Which were the same words he’d said that morning when he’d ridden in with Sancho and Paco in tow.
    He hadn’t exactly lied to Rikker back then, but he hadn’t told him the whole of it either—not about what Jacob had said before he fell unconscious in front of the burning cabin, or his own doubts about his father’s part in the deaths of Don Ramon and Maria. After his fit, Jacob had been as good as dead anyway, and Sancho already had so many marks against him, one more hadn’t mattered. So Brady had kept his silence, hoping to save himself the lie. Like Buck said, a man didn’t turn against his own.
    In the end, Rikker had drawn his own conclusions; Sancho had gone to one prison, while Jacob rotted in his own, with none but Brady the wiser. Yet even after ten years, the uncertainty of what really happened that night still stuck like a burr in Brady’s throat. Did Jacob kill Don Ramon and Maria, or did Sancho? Would he ever know?
    Rikker watched a small dust devil spiral across the yard, then sighed and pinched out his smoke. “Should have killed that bastard ten years ago.” He flicked the butt into the roses, then turned to study Brady. “But neither of us could have done that, could we, son?”
    Brady gave Bullshot’s ear a scratch then looked up, careful to keep his eyes steady, his face without expression. He could feel the older man stalking him with his mind, and wondered if the sheriff guessed his doubts.
    Rikker looked away first. He rubbed a knuckle across the gray stubble under his chin then sighed like a man who had searched so long and hard to find answers, he had forgotten what the questions were. “Reckon it’s a hard thing, killing a man in cold blood, no matter how much he deserves it. Sometimes it’s easier to just let the cards ride. Ain’t that so, son?”
    “We playing poker here, Sheriff?”
    Rikker showed tobacco-yellowed teeth in a crooked grin. “Hell no, boy. Your daddy taught me years ago not to bet against a Wilkins.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.” Brady pinned the older man with a look that said their little game was over. “Because this time when I find Ramirez, I’ll kill him. Just so you know.”
    Rikker studied him a moment, then gave a rueful smile. “Sometimes, Brady, you’re so like your daddy you scare me. He was hard to read, too. Guess that’s what made him a good poker player.” Something in Brady’s expression caused his smile to fade. A sad look came into his eyes. “That was a compliment, son. Your daddy was a good man. He might have made mistakes, but he always tried to do the right thing.”
    At one time Brady had thought so, too.
    Rikker pushed away from the post. “I’ll let Overland know you’ve got the passengers. They’ll probably want you to keep them here until they’re well enough to travel. They’ll pay for their keep.” He clumped down the steps toward the buckskin hitched to the rail. “I’ll be sending trackers after Sancho. See you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”
    Not long after Rikker left, Doc came onto the porch. He looked worried, his bushy white eyebrows drawn in a scowl above his red-veined pickle of a nose.
    “Well?” Brady asked.
    Doc let his medical satchel drop to the plank floor with a thud, then looked around for a chair. The only one with all its parts was loaded down with seed catalogs. He tipped it forward to clear the seat, then sat. “Well, the lad with the hole in his side lost a lot of blood, but I’m thinking he’ll make it. You did a good job there, boyo. The old lady has a simple sprain, and her daughter has naught but scratches and bruises. The redhead is sunburned, dehydrated, and bruised to hell.” Leaning over, he opened his satchel and rummaged inside. “She’s also running a fever and holding water. Could be uremia.” He sat back with a grin and a flask.
    “What’s that mean? She’s not dying, is she?” Brady