Chasing the Sun

by Kaki Warner

  “Christ, Jack!” Brady stomped across the room and back, hands planted low on his hips, chin jutting. “How could you go off and leave a woman after you got her pregnant? I raised you to be a better man than that.”

  Jack recognized the stance and the tone, but he was no longer as susceptible to it as he’d been when he’d left three years ago, so he managed to hold his temper in check. “In the first place, you didn’t raise me. In the second, I didn’t know she was pregnant when I left. And third, how do we even know the kid is mine?”

  Brady threw his hands up in disbelief. “Did you even look at her?”

  “The kid’s name is Kate,” Hank reminded them. “A nice name, I think.”

  “I was too busy trying not to bleed on your wife’s fancy rug,” Jack retorted, his control slipping. The kid. A daughter. Kate. The name felt odd in his head. The whole idea of her—of Daisy—of being a father—felt odd.

  “When did you leave San Francisco?” Hank, serious now, spoke in that calm, logical tone he used when Jack and Brady started in on each other.

  Despite his quips, Jack was glad Hank was there. He had worked too hard to pull himself out of the role of being Brady’s little brother, the wild one, the irresponsible hothead. He’d cleared that chip off his shoulder years ago and didn’t want to be goaded into putting it back on. Tasting blood again, he dabbed at his lip. “It was after Elena went to the abbey.”

  “How long after?”

  Jack shrugged. That time was a dark spot in his memory, the days running together in an alcoholic haze. Thinking back on it, he realized the only good thing about that bleak period was Daisy. The little fool had hoped to save him. But even she hadn’t been strong enough to pull him out of the hole he’d dug for himself, and if he hadn’t come out of his stupor long enough to sign on to that clipper bound for Australia, he would probably be buried in it right now.

  “A month,” he finally said. “Maybe two. I was drinking a lot.”

  “Apparently not enough,” Brady muttered.

  Jack checked the rag and saw that the bleeding had slowed. He tossed the cloth onto Brady’s desk and looked up with a cold smile that stung his lip. “There was never enough.”

  “Exactly when,” Hank persisted.

  Jack gave it some thought, but still couldn’t come up with a specific date. “In late fall. The grays hadn’t migrated south yet, but the whalers were already rigging up.”

  Hank glanced at Brady. “It fits.”

  Jack sighed and rubbed his temple where a headache was beginning to form. None of this made sense to him. Daisy showing up, Elena still insisting on the church, and now a daughter he didn’t know he had. He would have been better off following the China trade.

  “You’ll do the right thing.”

  Dropping his hand, Jack looked up at his oldest brother, a little irritated but not really shocked that Brady was still trying to run his life. Maybe he couldn’t help himself. Maybe all those years managing the ranch and his brothers had warped him somehow, made him think nothing could get along without his supervision.

  “You’re right, Brady. I will do the right thing. But it’ll be what’s right for me and Daisy and ... and the little one. Not you.”

  Something flashed in his brother’s icy eyes. Something angry and sad at the same time. “I’m not your enemy, Jack. I never have been.”

  Jack continued to look at him, letting his doubt show.

  “Does make you wonder, though,” Hank said, cutting into the staring contest. “How it is we attract such violent women.”

  Brady turned to glare at him. “Jessica’s not violent.”

  “She set Sancho on fire. Seems pretty violent to me.”

  “She had reason. And what about Molly killing Hennessey?”

  Hank waved the comment aside. “I’m just saying our wives are not females to cross and Jack’s woman seems no different. So far they haven’t killed us, but the way Jack is going, he could be the first. He should take note, is all.”

  “She’s not my woman,” Jack muttered.

  “She must have been at one time,” Brady said.

  “What I want to know,” Hank cut in before Jack could rise to the bait, “is if she didn’t know you were at the ranch, why is she here?”

  “She didn’t know I was back?”

  “Langley says not.”

  Jack decided he needed to talk to Langley. He needed to find out more about what happened and about that man she came with—that Blake fellow. One of the hands said he’d tried to run the quarantine and threatened to hit Daisy before the boys dragged him from the buggy. No matter what Daisy might have done—even socking a man in the mouth just for looking at her, ah, chest—there was never a reason for a man to use his fists on a woman.

  “So if it wasn’t to see you,” Hank went on, “why did she come?”

  “Maybe she expects Jack to marry her,” Brady said.

  “Or she’s hoping to leave the kid here,” Hank added. “But why now, after all this time?”

  Good question. Jack rose. “I guess I’d better find out.”

  “You want my gun?” Hank called as Jack stepped into the hall.

  “Keep it. Or better yet, use it on Brady.”

  He tracked Daisy to the bedroom across from his. She sat in a rocker by the window while Molly worked on her bruised cheek and Jessica stood over her, twisting her hands together like she did when she was worried or upset. Luckily Elena was still at her evening prayers and didn’t yet know about this fiasco.

  The women were deep in whispered conversation and didn’t hear his approach, so he paused in the doorway to look around.

  The room had already been set up as a nursery with a crib, a trunk loaded with baby clothes, a basket of books, and more toys than any one kid could play with. The baby—his daughter, supposedly—was asleep in the crib, snuffling softly under a blanket with puffy pink bunnies sewn all over it.

  “Money?” Jessica whispered in a tone that drew his attention. “You came here to extort money from us?”

  Jack frowned. This was about money, not the kid?

  “Not extort.” Daisy winced as Molly spread yellow ointment on a tender spot. “Borrow. I would have paid back every cent.”

  “Would have.” Jessica stopped working her hands and crossed her arms at her waist. Jack remembered that pose too. Any second she would start tapping a toe. “Does that mean you no longer need the money?”

  “Oh, I still need it. But now that Jack is here, I’ll get it from him. You can be sure of it.”

  A threat? She was threatening him?

  Molly began returning the jars and ointments to her black satchel. “Why do you need money?”

  “For Kate. For me.” Daisy slumped back into the rocker, her shoulders drooping with weariness. Brushing her fingertips over the swollen knuckles on her right hand, she added, “To help us get a new start.”

  She looked defeated. Hopeless. A sharp contrast to the pretty woman he vaguely remembered as being so full of spirit and laughter. And passion. He recalled that most of all. That, and her chest.

  He didn’t like the change. And he didn’t like the way Jessica was badgering her with questions when it was obvious Daisy was so tired she could hardly hold up her head. He needed to end this.

  “It’s a long story,” Daisy said in a flat voice as Jack limped into the room.

  “And an interesting one, I’ll warrant,” he cut in, smiling all around.

  Her gaze flew to his.

  The anger in it gave him pause, but he pushed ahead anyway. “And a story I’d like to hear. Maybe later. Evening, ladies.” He nodded to his sisters-in-law. “If you’re finished here, I’d like to talk to Daisy.”

  In a flutter of skirts, Jessica rushed over to plant herself between him and Daisy. Pinning him with that steely stare he had once found a bit unsettling, she said, “Perhaps later, Jack. She’s quite tired. I think it would be best if we let her rest awhile, don’t you?”

  “No, Jessica
, I don’t,” he said, still smiling. “Be sure to close the door on your way out.”

  Another staring contest. Jack won this one handily.

  As his brothers’ wives reluctantly departed, Daisy remained seated, watching him with a wary, tense expression, her face pale except for red-rimmed eyes and the bruise marring her cheek. He wondered if Blake had hit her after all, but didn’t ask, not wanting the added distraction until he said what he came to say. A little unnerved by her stillness and the anger that seemed to radiate from her like heat from a stove, he wandered around the room, trying to gather his thoughts.

  Despite the time they had spent together, he and Daisy were almost strangers. He wasn’t sure how to act, or what to say, or what she wanted from him. An unusual circumstance for him, especially around women.

  And then there was the kid. Kate. His daughter.

  And Elena.

  Jesus, what a mess.

  Looking down, he was surprised to find himself standing over the crib. Curiosity getting the better of him, he gently lifted the corner of the blanket.

  She was sprawled on her stomach, a well-worn stuffed animal tucked under her arm. She snored. He sometimes did, too, but that didn’t mean anything.

  He studied her sleeping face, but saw nothing in it to mark her as his. It was just a face. Small and round with dark lashes that looked odd with her blond curls.

  A lot of people had that coloring. It didn’t automatically mean she was his.

  Carefully lowering the blanket back over the tiny form, he turned to find Daisy glaring at him with those strange yellow-hazel eyes.

  He’d forgotten her eyes, and how they seemed to cut right through him when she was mad, and pull him in when she wasn’t. They were the kind of eyes that hinted at things, that promised to warm up at the right time and place.

  Which this wasn’t.

  Moving closer so they could talk without waking the baby, he folded his arms over his chest and spoke in the same calm, unthreatening tone he used with sailors aboard ship. “First, you’ll tell me why you’re convinced this baby is mine. Then you’ll explain why you’re here and why you need money. All right?” He finished with a smile to show her how reasonable he was being.

  “Go to hell, Jack.”

  Taken aback and a bit chilled by the frost in her voice, he tried to calm her ire by giving her his best smile again, even though it stung his lip. “Now, Daisy.”

  It seemed to have as little effect as it had before.

  “I’m tired, Jack. I don’t want to fight with you right now. Please leave.”

  Damn hardheaded woman.

  Jack studied her, wondering how to reach past that wall of anger. He didn’t want to fight either. He just wanted answers. But he could see how brittle and shaky she was, so venting his frustration with a sigh, he nodded. “All right, Daisy. I’ll go. After you answer one question for me.” He glanced at the crib. “You’re sure ... ?” He let the sentence hang.

  “That Kate’s your daughter?”

  He could see he’d upset her again, and was sorry for it. But he had to hear the answer from her and he had to look into her eyes when she gave it.

  Tears threatened but she blinked them away. “I was a saloon singer, Jack. Not a whore.”

  “I never said—”

  “No, you didn’t. But you’re not sure, are you? Even now you’re sifting through that whiskey-soaked memory of yours, wondering about it and thinking if I was a whore, that might let you off the hook.”

  When he didn’t respond—was too ashamed to, in fact, because to do so might reveal how close to the truth her accusation had come—she continued in a voice as cold and hard as ice.

  “You were the only man I ever took to my bed, Jack. Whether you believe that or not, be assured Kate is your daughter. I hope you will take responsibility for her. If not, after meeting some of your family, I feel confident they will.”

  Anger shot through him. He definitely didn’t want his family involved in this. “Daisy—”

  “No more.” She held up a hand to stop him. “That’s all I’m going to say for now, Jack. It’s been a horrid day and I’m tired. If you still have questions, we can talk more tomorrow before I leave. Good night.”

  Whirling, Jack limped from the room. Damn hardheaded woman.

  HE SPENT A DISMAL EVENING WITH HIS FAMILY.

  Supper wasn’t so bad, although it was uncharacteristically quiet—or as quiet as a meal could be with six kids and a talkative old Scotsman yammering nonstop. The food was tasty, though, and a welcome change from months of sea rations, so Jack ate heartily, knowing he had a long night ahead.

  As soon as the kids headed upstairs and the Scotsman went scampering after Consuelo—something Jack was afraid to think about too much—the rest of the family and Elena retired for the inquisition in front of the fire in the main room.

  It was awkward with Elena there, insomuch as the whole time he’d been pining over her, he’d apparently been busily impregnating Daisy. An embarrassing thing to have to admit to. Luckily, since everyone already knew about it, he didn’t have to do so aloud. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything, since there wasn’t much he remembered.

  Overdrinking was a poor excuse, but it was all he had. Once his family realized they’d wrung out of him all the information they could, they moved on to a heated discussion of how best to rectify “Jack’s unfortunate situation”—Jessica’s words. Brady’s were less kindly.

  Everyone had an opinion on what he should do and how he should live his life, ranging from the escape to Africa, to marriage, to suicide. Although the suggestion that he eat a bullet might have come from within his own mind. But as the evening wore on and on, it began to sound like one of the better options.

  The only people who didn’t offer advice were Hank, who wasn’t much of a talker anyway; Daisy, who had taken an early supper in her room then retired for the night; and Elena, who let her varying expressions of shock, dismay, and disappointment speak for her.

  Jack could hardly look at her. Not just because of the hurt, bewildered looks she sent him, but because of his own rising anger and his intense desire to say, “This is partly your fault too. You drove me to it.”

  Of course, that wasn’t true. None of this was her fault. Jack knew that. But when a man is faced with the dire results of his own baseness and stupidity, it always helped to mentally point a finger at someone else.

  But mostly throughout his family’s discussions of his future, he remained silent, and after a while their chatter faded to a distant buzz in his head as he sat holding his untouched glass of whiskey and staring into the fire.

  He was a father.

  A difficult concept to get his mind around. It redefined him and created a whole new way of looking at things. It altered his entire future.

  He was a father. A man with responsibilities. A man who was no longer answerable only to himself.

  It scared the hell out of him.

  At midnight a reprieve was granted when his family decided it was time to retire. With sad looks and murmured promises to resume discussions the next day—oh, joy—they filed solemnly past like mourners at a wake, leaving Jack still sprawled in his chair, still nursing his full glass of whiskey.

  Only Hank stayed behind. Sending his wife on without him, he began digging at the dying fire with a metal poker.

  Jack waited. Hank didn’t normally talk much. But when he did have something to say, it was usually worth listening to.

  After he’d gotten the fire going again, Hank hung the poker back on its peg, rested his elbow on the mantle, and looked down at Jack. “Remember Melanie Kinderly from the fort?”

  “I do.” And not fondly. Melanie and her mother had been on the stagecoach with Jessica when it had crashed over a bluff. She had stayed at the ranch while her mother recovered, and during that time she and Hank had developed a strong liking for each other. In fact, when Jack left three years ago, Hank had been planning to follow Melanie to the fort that he
r father commanded. Jack had wondered what had happened, but since Hank seemed so happy with Molly, he hadn’t asked.

  “I went up there to court her,” Hank went on. “I figured it was time I settled down, and she was pretty and accommodating, so why not? She seemed taken with the idea at first, then all of a sudden she’s marrying a soldier there at the fort.”

  “She always seemed a little stupid.”

  “Not stupid. Just ignorant. And easily led. I saw that as an advantage, thinking it would make her a biddable wife.”

  Jack preferred a little more fire himself. Someone capable enough to carry her own bullets, as it were.

  “After I married Molly, I came across Melanie in Val Rosa. We talked for a minute, and I realized then how close I had come to making a costly mistake.”

  Jack nodded in understanding. He preferred Molly too.

  “Well.” With a sigh, Hank pushed away from the mantle. “Good night then.”

  “What? Wait.”

  Hank turned to look at him.

  “That’s it?” Jack made a vague gesture, sloshing whiskey over the rim of his glass. “The end of the story? No sage advice on avoiding costly mistakes or marrying women who aren’t biddable?”

  Hank shrugged.

  “Then why the hell did you tell me all that? What’s the point?”

  “There is no point. I just thought you might be curious about what happened between me and Melanie but didn’t want to ask in front of Molly.”

  “Jesus, Hank. There has to be a point.”

  “Oh.” Hank scratched at the dark stubble under his chin for a moment then said, “If you’ve got feelings for a woman, you ought to know why. How’s that?”

  Now Jack was even more confused. Why couldn’t his brother ever talk in a straight line? “Are you talking about Daisy? Because I don’t have feelings for Daisy. I mean, I have feelings, but not the kind that—”

  Hank sighed.

  “Not Daisy?”

  “You going to drink that?” He nodded toward the glass in Jack’s hand. “Hate to waste such good whiskey.”

  “Elena then. You’re talking about Elena, right?”

  Leaning over, Hank plucked the glass from Jack’s unresisting grip, tossed back the contents, and set the empty glass on the mantle. He belched then yawned. “I give Jessica credit. This Scotch whiskey is one change I really like. ’Night.”