Pieces of Sky by Kaki Warner Page A

pictured her doing battle with that hair wad, then later doing battle with him. The woman had too much spirit to die.
    “I’m not knowing that, lad,” Doc said as he worked the stopper loose. “But if we can get her fever down, get some fluids into her, and keep her quiet and off her feet for a while, I’m thinking she’ll make it.” He held the flask high. “Here’s to Mick Flanagan, may he rest in peace, the manky bastard.” Tipping his head back, he took a long swallow.
    “And her baby?”
    Doc shuddered and dragged his sleeve across his watery eyes. “If she doesn’t start her labors too soon, they should be fine.” He offered the flask.
    Brady ignored it. “They?”
    “Unless she’s got a heart murmur, boyo, I’m thinking the lass is carrying twins.” Doc recorked then dropped the flask back into his satchel. “But don’t say anything for now. I’ll have to read up on it to be sure. I must have a book about it somewhere.”
    Twins? Brady knew double births were good for cattle and bad for horses, but he wasn’t sure about humans. “Is that a good thing? Twins?”
    Doc shrugged. “Never delivered twins myself. But since she won’t be going anywhere for the next three months, I’ll have plenty of time to study on it.”
    Brady reared back. “Three months?”
    “She sure as hell can’t travel, boyo.” Doc must have read Brady’s shock and dismay. “Would it be so bad having a pretty face to rest your eyes on?”
    “It’s not that, it’s . . . well, she’s . . .” In his agitation, Brady couldn’t find words to express all the conflicting thoughts in his mind. “Have you talked to her?” Five minutes in the woman’s company was enough to give any right-thinking man hives. How was he to manage three months?
    “She’s unconscious,” Doc reminded him.
    Three months. “She’s not going to like it.”
    “She won’t have a choice.”
    “She’ll like that even less.” Brady pictured her propped in his bed like the Queen of England, wearing some frilly night thing, expecting everyone to wait on her, while he . . .
    Hmm . . .
    Her Ladyship. In his bed. In his house, living under his rules and his watchful eye. Just thinking about all the possibilities made him smile. He would have to hide her umbrella.
    It wasn’t until Doc went inside to find something to eat that Brady realized he hadn’t asked Rikker if he’d seen any posters about a lost Englishwoman with red hair.
    He wondered if he should.
    Then decided he wouldn’t.
    Like the sheriff said, sometimes it’s easier to just let the cards ride.

Six

    THIRST AWOKE HER.
    Like a voice shrieking inside her head, it overrode everything, pulled her away from the safe cocoon of numbness into the chaos of light and sound and pain.
    Her head hurt. Her throat burned. Every nerve and cell in her body screamed for water.
    With a groan, she opened her eyes.
    Shadows and soft golden light. She blinked, but still everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct. Was she drugged? After a moment her vision cleared enough that she saw it was night and the room was lit by a kerosene lamp on a table beside the bed. Whose room? Whose bed?
    It should have mattered, but it didn’t.
    And that should have distressed her, but it didn’t.
    All she could think of was the baby.
    Lifting a trembling hand, she pressed it to her abdomen. Round and hard. Movement beneath her palm. Still there. Still alive. Relief stole her strength. She sank into the pillows as jumbled images flashed in her mind, so distorted and disturbing she couldn’t distinguish what was real from what was not.
    She heard a soft, muffled sound. A snore.
    With painful slowness she lifted her head to see feet at the end of her bed—not hers but a man’s—crossed at the ankles and resting atop the counterpane. Huge feet, unshod and wrapped in dusty bandages so only the tips of red swollen toes showed. Her gaze moved slowly up long legs clad in worn denim to equally huge hands clasped loosely