Chasing the Sun

by Kaki Warner

  And that was when Daisy’s tears started.

  It was a simple ceremony, but even so, Jack was nervous as hell, alternately terrified, proud, so happy he wanted to shout, and terrified. But mostly when he looked over at his beautiful bride, he thought what a lucky sonofabitch he was.

  Thankfully, Daisy got control of her tears by the time they started the vows, and everything progressed smoothly until the Reverend asked for the ring and Jack realized he had never gotten one when he’d been in Val Rosa.

  You stupid bastard.

  Staring in stricken dismay at the Reverend, he started to stammer his excuses when he felt a nudge on his arm, and looked over to see Brady holding out his hand. In the middle of his broad, callused palm was a thin gold band.

  Jack blinked stupidly at it, then up at his brother.

  “It was Ma’s,” Brady whispered so Daisy wouldn’t hear. When Jack still didn’t move, he muttered, “Close your mouth, little brother. You’re catching flies.”

  Then a few minutes later he was kissing his wife to seal the deal.

  Jack Wilkins, hog-tied at last.

  He felt wobbly with relief. Or fear. Or something. He was now a married man, as well as a father, and responsible for lives other than his own. A strange, overwhelming, wondrous thing. And as he walked out of the church with Daisy on one arm and Kate bouncing in the other, he felt important and proud and worthy—no longer a tagalong in the shadow of his big brothers—but finally, his own man.

  They led the way to the hotel, where Jessica had hired the few remaining townswomen to cook up a feast. It was the usual lively gathering of Wilkins children and their parents, everybody talking at once, with lots of laughter and gentle jibes at the bride and groom.

  When the meal was over, Hank rose to offer a toast to the newlyweds. As he raised a coffee mug full of Jessica’s fine Scotch sipping whiskey, a distant sound caught his attention. He tilted his head and listened for a moment, then slowly turned to Brady. He didn’t look happy. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “A train whistle.”

  “Hellfire,” Ben shouted. “The train!”

  Penny and Charlie giggled. Jessica pressed a hand to her forehead.

  Brady sent a sharp, questioning look at his wife, then glanced back at his towering brother. “By God, I think you’re right. It’s definitely a train whistle.”

  Hank’s mug slapped onto the table, sloshing whiskey over the rim. “And what the hell is a locomotive doing here?”

  Jessica cleared her throat. “I sent for it.”

  Both Hank and Brady turned to stare at her.

  She made a dismissive gesture and straightened the napkin in her lap. “Cusack owed me a favor.”

  Brady’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

  “Actually it was his wife who owed me. Her daughter wanted a title, so I sent her to Annie for her come out. I think she snagged a baron. Isn’t that lovely?”

  The brothers continued to stare at her.

  “Well, really, you two,” she scolded. “Did you honestly intend to send your brother and his family off in a handcar? It’s too dangerous by half.”

  “It had a sail,” Hank defended.

  “Did you even try it out?” Jessica demanded.

  “Brady said he would once I got it together.”

  Brady’s head whipped from his wife to his brother. “No, I didn’t.”

  Jack slipped his hand over Daisy’s. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear. “You see now why I want to leave? They’re idiots, both of them.”

  “Hush. They’re your brothers.”

  “My idiot brothers.”

  Abruptly Jessica rose. “Molly, if you don’t mind, could you please take Daisy to change into her traveling attire?” She glanced at her husband’s set face, then sighed and added as an afterthought, “Perhaps you’d best take the children with you.”

  Signaling the Ortega girls to assist, Molly rose and herded children from the table. “We’ll meet you at the depot,” she said, snagging Daisy’s arm as she went by. “One hour.”

  Jack watched his bride leave then settled back to enjoy seeing his brothers dressed down English-style.

  Instead, he got the first salvo. “If you had done the correct thing back three years ago, Jack, none of this would have been necessary.”

  Jack grinned. “And have you miss planning this fine wedding?”

  That set her back, but she quickly recovered and aimed her next volley at his brothers. “And you two,” she snapped in her haughty Her Ladyship voice. “You cannot put a child in a dangerous contraption that has never even been tested. I simply will not allow it. Besides, the wind would make a shambles of Daisy’s hair and dress, and—well, it’s simply not going to happen, and that’s the end of it.”

  “It’s not that dangerous,” Hank protested, but without much conviction, Jack thought.

  “How many other men owe you favors?” Brady asked.

  “Oh, botheration!”

  “It’s a righteous question.”

  “It would have worked,” Hank muttered.

  “Where’s the whiskey?” Jack asked, feeling a headache form.

  A while later, the three brothers were sitting on the edge of the depot platform beside the idling locomotive, waiting for the women and doing serious damage to a bottle of Jessica’s finest.

  “It would have worked,” Hank insisted, staring morosely into his mug.

  “I never said it wouldn’t,” Brady said for probably the fifth time. “It’s a fine idea. But I do wonder how safe it is. What if a big gust came along? Hell, it would probably blow the thing right off the track. Or what if the wind died before they made it to the pass and they came screaming back down, arms and legs flapping like crazed chickens?” Brady grinned. “That’d be something to see though, wouldn’t it?”

  Jack gave him a look of offense. “That’s my wife and daughter you’re talking about.”

  Just saying those words aloud sent a jolt through Jack.

  Wife and daughter. Jesus.

  He was all grown up now. Pretty soon he’d be sprouting hair out his ears and complaining about his rheumatism. But it didn’t sound so bad, knowing he wouldn’t be alone.

  “So this is it, then?”

  Realizing the question was directed at him, Jack looked over to find Brady studying him, a thoughtful look in his blue eyes. “This is what?”

  “You’re leaving the ranch for good this time, aren’t you?”

  Jack stared into his mug, his throat suddenly tight. “I’ll always love the ranch, Brady. But I can’t live here. Not for the rest of my life.”

  “No, I don’t expect you can.”

  Hank said nothing, just looked at him with that probing gaze.

  Jack thought about the years ahead—him and Daisy and Kate seeing sights barely imagined, while his brothers stayed here in this valley, following the cycles of RosaRoja. It struck him that no matter how far he traveled, or what lay ahead, the ranch would go on—with or without him or his brothers. It was the one constant around which all their lives revolved. RosaRoja would always be a place to come back to. No matter how far he roamed, it would always be home.

  Odd, that now he had the chance to leave it, he wasn’t that anxious to go.

  “I won’t be gone forever.” Jack looked at his brothers, realizing how much he admired them, and cared about them, and needed them in his life. A hardheaded, contentious pair, to be sure. But they were part of the history that made him who he was. And they were, and always would be, his big brothers.

  Fearing another unmanly bout of emotionalism, he laughed and said, “Hell, I’m like that throwing stick I gave you. No matter how far you throw it, or how many times it leaves your hand, it always comes back.”

  “That damn thing doesn’t work,” Brady muttered.

  “In other words, we’ll never be rid of you,” Hank said.

  “Exactly. I’m the boomerang man.” Jack laughed an
d made a tossing motion with his mug, nearly slinging whiskey on Brady’s boots. “I may sail off now and then, but I’ll always come back. And that’s a promise, girls.”

  “Careful,” Hank warned. “You’ll make Brady cry.”

  Brady made a rude gesture to his second brother, then quickly dropped his hand when he caught sight of the ladies coming back, trailing kids behind them like goslings on parade.

  All three brothers fell silent as they watched their wives walk toward them.

  “They’re a fine-looking bunch,” Hank said.

  “That they are,” Jack agreed.

  “Hell,” Brady muttered. “They’ve been crying. I hate when they cry.”

  “That yellow dress sure fits Daisy well,” Hank observed.

  “Stop looking at her chest. That’s my wife, for Crissakes.” Yet Jack couldn’t help but appreciate how the bounce in Daisy’s step brought a corresponding bounce to other bouncy parts.

  Brady smiled, his gaze pinned on his wife. “We got lucky, boys.”

  “We surely did.” And setting his mug aside, Jack rose and went to meet his bride.

  Epilogue

  IT WAS THE LAST DAY OF THE LAST MAY, OF THE LAST YEAR of the century, and as another summer blossomed across the hills cradling RosaRoja, Jessica and Brady sat in their rocker on the porch of their sprawling log home, contemplating the glorious sunset and enjoying the solitude.

  The house was silent now, as it was more often of late, but summer roundup would start in a week, then the hordes would descend and the halls would once again echo with the sounds of laughter and love and family.

  Jessica was in a dither of excitement.

  Reaching over, Brady took his wife’s hand. Twining his fingers through hers, he bound them palm to palm, their arms resting on the wide center armrest. They had given up their separate rockers years ago when he had commissioned a single double-seated rocker to be made, so they could rock at the same speed without her fussing that he was going too fast. The woman had a lot of rules. He’d also made sure the armrest was detachable in case ... well, just in case. Maybe later.

  “Harvey sent word,” he said.

  Jessica looked over, her whiskey brown eyes alight with excitement. “Did he say anything about Ben?”

  “He did.” Harvey was Penny’s husband and the newly elected sheriff in Val Rosa. A good man, with high ideals and a gentle heart, who dearly loved his family. And Penny, well, Penny was still Penny. Everything had to be right and proper with her, and she managed her five kids with fierce determination. A lot like Jessica, in that respect. God bless them both.

  “Well?” Jessica prompted, her grip tightening on his hand. “Tell me.”

  “Says Ben’s on his way.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried he wouldn’t be able to come.”

  Knowing where she was going, Brady tried to head her off. “You know he has those meetings in Arizona, Jessica. He won’t be able to stay long.”

  She hiked her chin and rocked harder.

  “It’s important work he’s doing,” he added. “We need statehood.”

  “I know that.” She gave an impatient wave with her free hand. “But this is a special time for us, as well. We need him here.”

  He bit back a smile. “It’s just roundup,” he reminded her gently. “And I think working on a statehood proposal might be more important that herding cows.”

  “Don’t be pert. Besides, this is the last time the family will be together until Christmas.”

  Recognizing a losing fight when he saw one, Brady said nothing more. When his wife got a notion in her head, she could be as stubborn as a rented mule. A really pretty rented mule.

  They rocked in silence, the heels of Jessica’s shoes gently thumping against the plank floor. A deep feeling of contentment filled Brady as the evening breeze drifted in, bringing with it the scent of early summer roses and the music of RosaRoja—crickets, cattle, the nicker of horses in the paddocks, male laughter, and the idle plinking of a guitar from the bunkhouse. Comfortable sounds that were as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart.

  “I shall miss Abigail, though,” his wife said, breaking into his thoughts. “I worry about her being all alone so far from home.”

  He turned his head and looked at the strong profile that had softened a bit with age, but was still proud and sure, that little chin ever the signpost to her emotions. And the tremble he saw in it now told him she was getting herself worked up. “She’s not alone. She’s got aunts and uncles and cousins all around her, and a wealth of new friends to keep her from getting too lonesome.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jessica admitted. “You’ve read her letters. What if she falls in love and decides to stay over there? What if she never comes home?”

  Brady gently squeezed her hand. “She is home, Jessica. Bickersham Hall is her home. That’s the way it was set up almost four hundred years ago—the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter inherits. You sent her there.”

  Turning her head away from him, she swiped at her cheek with her free hand. “It seems a silly tradition,” she said in a voice that told him she was starting to tear up.

  “Jessica.” Even after spending almost half his life with this woman, her tears still got to him.

  “Well, it’s extremely vexing! And the twins—what kind of foolishness is that? I thought once the war was over they would give up the military life, but oh, no. Three days is all we get, then they’re off to some reunion with Roosevelt and the other Rough Riders, and then where? Back to Cuba? South America? It’s absurd. They’re needed here. At the ranch.”

  Brady knew how hard it was on his wife to have the children so scattered and he knew how much she missed them. But as she had taught him long ago, if you want to bind your family close, you have to let them go. So while she battled her tears, he rocked in silence and battled his feelings of helplessness in the face of her tears by making lists in his head of all the chores he would need to tend to before roundup started.

  RosaRoja was a greedy, demanding mistress.

  But he loved her still.

  The sun sank, slipping coyly behind the mountaintops like an aging saloon dancer, trailing wispy clouds in her wake like tattered scarves of red and orange. Then too soon all that remained of the day were purple and gold bands that lingered in the fading sky like trailing puffs of smoke. Even after fifty years of RosaRoja sunsets, each one was a wonderment to him.

  “Hank and Molly will stay the full week,” he said after a while when the sniffling stopped. “And they’ll bring enough children to fill the nursery and Jack’s wing.”

  Even though they had never been blessed with offspring of their own, Hank and Molly always had a houseful of children—many straight off the Orphan Train—and others from the children’s hospital and foundling home they had built years ago in Santa Fe. “Hopefully Charlie can come with them.” As the resident doctor at the home, his duties to his patients always came first.

  Brady didn’t mention the lost ones—Elena, who was continuing the late Father Damien’s work in Hawaii, and who was still healthy, thank God. And George, Jessica’s brother, who had set off for Alaska back in sixty-eight and had never been seen again. Nor did he mention Jack and Daisy. Daisy’s final concert tour through southern Europe wouldn’t end for another month. But they would be back for the Christmas gathering, and he knew Jessica was pleased about that. Their daughter, Kate, would be delighted to have them home for a while too. She was anxious to show off her new foals.

  “Isn’t it odd about Kate,” Jessica said, as if she had read his thoughts, which she did with alarming frequency, “that the child with the strongest tie to RosaRoja is the daughter of the brother with the weakest. I had always hoped the twins—”

  “The ranch was never their dream, Jessica. Nor Jack’s.”

  “But it is his daughter’s dream. Don’t you find that ironic? Now Kate is the new heart of RosaRoja and is as devoted to the ranch as you ever were.
Now it’s her vision that will protect it and hold it together for the generation to come.”

  “Hell, I’m not dead yet,” he complained, then shot her a rakish grin. “Want me to prove it?”

  Jessica laughed, seeing in her husband the same teasing rascal she had fallen in love with over thirty years ago. There might be more gray than black in his hair now and a bit of a hitch in his fluid, rolling gait, but he was still a strong, vital man. And her feelings for him were as lasting as the land he loved.

  The land they both loved.

  Turning her gaze to the hilltop cemetery, she watched the gentle breeze send the thin, drooping branches of the mesquite tree swaying like one of those grass skirts Jack had brought back from some island in the Pacific. A lonely sentinel, it still stood guard over the living and the dead. Like this land, it endured. Over the years, other markers had sprouted beneath it; Dougal and Consuelo—what must Saint Peter have thought when that pair showed up?—Buck and Iantha, and Carl Langley, as well as several other retired ranch workers. It was getting crowded up there in the little graveyard, but even in the fading light, Jessica unerringly found Victoria’s marker and the rosebush Brady had transplanted beside it.

  The last red rose.

  How far this family had come since those turbulent days, she thought, tipping back her head and closing her eyes. So many changes. And yet, as she rocked on the porch with her hand securely anchored to the man she loved, and memories of their life together floated through her mind like a gently remembered tune, she realized the important things remained the same.

  “I love you, Brady.”

  “I know.”

  Opening her eyes, she turned her head and looked at him. “You know?” She tried to sound indignant, but he knew her too well.

  And even after thirty years, that dimpled smile stole her breath away.

  “You’d be a fool not to,” he said, his vibrant, sky blue eyes dancing with merriment. “And you’re not a fool.”

  Finally the laughter broke through. “You’re such a dolt.”

  “I know that too,” he said. And leaning over the armrest, he gave her a thorough, heart-stuttering kiss, reminding her again that the very best things in this life never changed at all.