by Warner, Kaki
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eigh
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Foourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR
PIECES OF SKY
“Readers may need a big box of Kleenex while reading this emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance, but this flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”
—Chicago Tribune
“In her auspicious debut, Warner kicks off the Blood Rose Trilogy . . . Warner develops [the] romance with well-paced finesse and great character work . . . Warner makes great use of the vivid Old West setting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Romance, passion, and thrilling adventure fill the pages of this unforgettable saga that sweeps the reader from England to the old West. Jessy and Brady are truly lovers for the ages!”
—Rosemary Rogers
“Pieces of Sky reminds us why New Mexico is called the land of enchantment. A truly original new voice in historical fiction.”
—Jodi Thomas
“Generates enough heat to light the old New Mexico sky. A sharp, sweet love story of two opposites, a beautifully observed setting, and voilà—a romance you won’t soon forget.”
—Sara Donati, author of The Endless Forest
“From the first page, it’s clear why debut author Warner has won several awards. Her western romance is a striking portrait of the territory in all its reality, harshness, and beauty. Like Francine Rivers, Warner creates a novel of the human spirit’s ability to conquer emotional and physical obstacles. She conveys her characters perfectly, giving them lives of their own. Readers will be waiting breathlessly for the next book in the Blood Rose Trilogy.”
—Romantic Times
“A very good book.”
—All About Romance
“It’s been a very long time since I read an engaging and sweet historical romance such as Pieces of Sky . . . I absolutely loved Kaki Warner’s writing.”
—Babbling About Books
“I loved everything about this book.”
—Roundtable Reviews
Berkley Sensation titles by Kaki Warner
PIECES OF SKY
OPEN COUNTRY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2010 by Kathleen Warner.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / June 2010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warner, Kaki.
Open country / Kaki Warner.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed. p. cm.—(Blood rose trilogy ; bk. 2)
eISBN : 978-1-101-18796-8
1. Ranchers—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.W37O64 2010
813’.6—dc22 2010003368
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Sara—princess, warrior, friend.
And to Brian, the remarkable young man she brought into the family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to:
Sara Straley, for my beautiful website and her patience in trying to teach me how it all works.
Carlee and Jason, for their excellent advice on medical and weaponry issues.
Heather and Adeline, for being the inspiration behind Penny . . . more or less.
And with special thanks to Nancy Coffey and Joanna Stampfel-Volpe of Nancy Coffey Literary & Media Representation—to Wendy McCurdy, my discerning editor—and to Kathryn Tumen, my hardworking publicist, all of whom have worked so diligently to make this dream a reality.
Bless you all.
Prologue
Savannah, Georgia, October 1871
“MOLLY? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? HOW DID YOU GET in?”
So much for a warm welcome, Molly McFarlane thought, setting down her valise and turning to meet her sister’s husband as he came down the staircase of his elegant Savannah home. “The door was open.”
“Damn those children.” Reaching past her, he shut the door so forcefully the panes in the window beside it rattled, then he stood back and glared at her. “Why are you here?”
“The doctor sent for me.” Taking time to curb her irritation, Molly unpinned her hat and hung it on a hook beside the door before turning to her brother-in-law with what she hoped was a pleasant expression. In truth, she despised Daniel Fletcher, especially after the callous way he had treated the family—most particularly, his two stepchildren—after her father’s death a month ago. “How is she?”
Fletcher made a dismissive motion. He seemed distracted and on edge. Not his usual, fastidious self with that unshaven beard and soiled shirt. “Fine, fine. There was no need for you to come all the way from Atlanta.”
“The doctor seemed to think there was. Lung fever is quite serious.” Hearing the snappish tone in her voice, she reined in her temper. “I’m not here to interfere, Daniel. I’ve come as her sister, not a nurse. If there’s anything I can do to—”
“There isn’t,” he cut in. “You’re not needed.”
Molly looked steadily at him, refusing to back down, wondering as she had so many times why her older sister had taken such an unpleasant man as her second husband. Grief over her first husband’s
death had been part of it, no doubt. And fear of raising a six-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son on her own had added to it. It had taken less than six months for Nellie to realize her mistake.
“May I see her?” she asked.
Being the weak, bullying man he was, Fletcher looked away first, his gaze as shifty as that of a guilty child. “Oh, all right. Stay if you must.” Muttering to himself, he went down the hall to his office, slamming the door hard behind him.
Molly wondered how he could bear to go into that room. She had only had the courage to venture through that door once. The walls had been cleaned by then, the reek of gunpowder and blood masked by the cloying scent of funeral flowers and smoke from Fletcher’s cigar. But Papa’s ghost had lingered. She could feel him still.
“Did you come to save Mama?”
Glancing up, Molly saw her nephew, Charlie, perched on the top step of the stairs. He looked lost and small and too knowing for his eight years. He’d already lost his father and grandfather. Was he to lose his mother now too? “I’ve come to try,” she answered.
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll get her anyway.”
“Who will get her?”
“The monster. He’ll get us too.” Jumping to his feet, Charlie darted away, his footfalls ending with the thud of an upstairs door.
Frowning, Molly started up the stairs. As she rose above the entrance hall, she looked down through the open parlor door to see the room was a shambles, rugs thrown back, drawers half-open, books scattered about the cluttered floor. Apparently, Fletcher hadn’t seen fit to hire a cleaning girl during Nellie’s illness. Molly sighed. Well, if nothing else, at least she could clean up the house for her sister.
Outside the master bedroom, she paused for a moment to prepare herself, then knocked. When she heard no response, she gently pushed open the door.
The room beyond was still and dark, the curtains pulled tight over the tall windows. The air was rank with the smell of soiled bedding, illness, and despair. Except for labored breathing, it was silent.
Molly pressed her lips tight against a rush of angry words. How long had her sister been left unattended? When had she last had her bedding changed, or her face washed, or her hair brushed? Had Fletcher simply left her in the dark to suffer alone? “Nellie?” she called.
“Molly? Is that . . . you?” The voice was a weak rasp, followed by a bout of coughing that seemed to rip through her sister’s throat.
Rushing across the room, Molly bent beside the bed, her years of medical training at her father’s side overcoming her disgust with Fletcher and her terror for her sister. “Yes, I’m here,” she said in the calm, soothing voice Papa had taught her.
Nellie looked ghastly, a mere shadow of the lovely woman she had once been. Her skin seemed stretched over her bones and showed an unhealthy pallor except for two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. Her lovely green eyes shone feverishly bright, and her welcoming smile looked more like a grimace.
Recognizing encroaching death when she saw it, Molly sank weakly onto the edge of the mattress. Dear God, she cried in silent desperation, don’t take Nellie from me too. “Oh, Sister,” she choked out as tears flooded her eyes. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
“Daniel . . . wouldn’t . . . let me.”
To cover her shock, Molly brushed a lock of lank auburn hair from her sister’s hot forehead. “Well, I’m here now, dearest. And I won’t leave you.”
“You must.” Reaching out, Nellie grasped Molly’s shoulder and pulled her closer. Her breath stank of the infection in her lungs. Her eyes glittered in her gaunt face—but with desperation, not madness.
“Take my . . . babies,” she gasped. “Before it’s . . . too late.”
Molly struggled to understand. “Take them where?”
“Away . . .”
“From Daniel?”
“He’s up to . . . something. Bombs. A new . . . war.” Her voice was so weak Molly had to lean close to hear. Every word was a wheezing struggle. “Thinks children . . . took papers. Hurt . . . them.” A coughing fit gripped her and Nellie writhed, eyes scrunched tight, fingers clawing at the bedclothes as she struggled to drag air into her flooded lungs. Once the spasm passed, she opened her eyes and Molly saw that desperation had given way to grim determination. “Promise me . . . take them away before . . . too late.”
“But, Nellie—”
“Must hide them . . . keep safe.” Nellie was panting now, her eyes frantic. “Now. Tonight.”
“I c-can’t just leave you.”
“You must.” Tears coursed down Nellie’s temples to soak into the filthy bedding. “Keep babies . . . safe. Promise me . . . Sister.”
Weeping in despair, Molly nodded. “I promise.”
A WEEK LATER, IN A DARKENED ROOM IN JEANERETTE, GEORgia, two hundred miles west of Savannah, Daniel Fletcher peered nervously through the shadows at the man seated in a wheeled chair behind the wide cherrywood desk.
It irritated him that Rustin didn’t have the lamps lit. Even if the old man didn’t need light, the rest of them did. He looked around, sensing other people in the room. Probably the artillery expert, maybe the Professor.
“Well?” Rustin demanded in his papery voice. “Have you found it?”
“Not yet,” Fletcher answered, hoping his voice didn’t betray his growing alarm. Why hadn’t any of the others spoken? And why hadn’t Rustin offered him a chair? He felt like a fool standing there in the dark talking to a disembodied voice.
He had never liked Rustin. Even though the old man was the glue that held them all together, Fletcher thought it hypocritical that after stealing all that gold from the Confederate coffers, Rustin would use it to foment another rebellion a decade later. But this wasn’t about breathing new life into the wounded South. It was about money. And power. “I’ve literally torn the place apart,” Fletcher said nervously. “If my wife hid it somewhere before she died, it’s gone now.”
“Who else could have taken it?”
“No one was in the house but me, my wife, and her children. Occasionally the doctor came by, and near the end, Nellie’s sister came, but the book had disappeared long before that.”
“Could your father-in-law, Matthew McFarlane, have taken it? He must have known something if he came all the way from Atlanta to confront you about it.”
Fletcher felt that quiver of guilt move through his stomach. Poor, stupid Matthew. His wife’s father had always had an overblown sense of integrity. “He had heard rumors. That’s all. He knew nothing about the book when he—when I questioned him.”
“And now he’s dead.” It was a moment before Rustin spoke again. “How old are your children?”
“Stepchildren. Eight and six, I believe.”
“Have you questioned them?”
Battling the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his coat, Fletcher glanced around, wondering again why the others hadn’t spoken. This was beginning to feel like an inquisition. Turning back to Rustin, he said stiffly, “The children are no longer at the house.” And good riddance. Always underfoot, poking into things they shouldn’t. He was glad to be shut of them.
“Where are they?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
Finally a voice erupted from a darkened corner. The Professor’s. “Christ, man! They could have taken it and might even now be showing it to the authorities!”
Fletcher could hear whispering in the shadows, a furtive, hushed sound, like rats skittering behind walls.
“They wouldn’t have left on their own,” Rustin said. “Who is with them?”
“Their aunt, my wife’s sister. Molly McFarlane.”
“Why did she take them from your care?”
That dry, choking feeling returned to Fletcher’s throat. He coughed to clear it. “I d-don’t know.”
Anger swirled in the closed room like coils of greasy smoke.
“She must have taken it,” a voice accused.
Fletcher shook his head. “How could she have even
known about it?”
“Maybe your wife told her.”
“You imbecile!” Rustin cut in with such an explosion of vehemence Fletcher flinched. “You idiot!” Leaning forward in his chair and into a pale slant of light penetrating the edge of the drawn drape, Rustin spread his bloated hands on the desktop. His milky eyes seemed to stare into Fletcher, although Fletcher knew that was impossible. “You go find them, you bumbling fool! You find that woman and those children and get that book back! Now!”
“Y-Yes. All right.” Fletcher edged toward the exit. As he swung open the door to the blinding brightness of the hallway, Rustin’s voice drifted out behind him.
“Send for Hennessey. Just in case.”
One
East of El Paso, Texas, November 1871
“THAT OLD MAN LOOKS LIKE A BEAR, DOESN’T HE, AUNT Molly?”
Blinking out of her reverie, Molly glanced at her niece, Penny, who was leaning to the side of her aisle seat so she could see down the narrow walkway of the railroad passenger car. “He’s so big and hairy.”
Following her line of vision, Molly saw that the bearded man slouched on the rear-facing bench at the front was staring at her again.
Pursing her lips, she shifted her gaze to the shoulders of the woman seated ahead of her. Men didn’t usually study her so intently—healthy men anyway—and it made her acutely uncomfortable. But Penny was right. He did look a bit like a bear with his great size and all that dark hair, although it could only be from a six-year-old’s perspective that he be considered old.
