When the Halo Falls, a heavenly romance Page 6

  "From the outside, sure," he agreed, though privately he thought it a little showy for a town where most of the churches were made of adobe.

  "Oh, but the inside is even nicer," she went on and waited for his acknowledgment.

  "I wouldn't know," he said, hoping she'd let it drop, but somehow knowing she wouldn't.

  He was right.

  "That's right. You've never been inside."

  "Now how'd you know that?" he asked and felt a curl of suspicion unwind inside him. He had no satisfaction for it, though, since she answered his question with one of her own.

  "Whyever not?"

  "C'mon, horse!" he shouted, snapping the reins again before he glanced at her and shrugged. "Why would I want to go inside a church?”

  "To pray?"

  He laughed at the absurdity of the notion and let the chuckles keep rolling despite feeling her stiffen alongside him.

  "What did I say that was so funny?" she demanded.

  His fingers tightened on the reins and he let his gaze slide to the left of the road. In the far distance, he could just make out the turtleback hump of the Sandia Mountains while off to the right were the Sangre de Cristos, and he knew they were closing in on Santa Fe.

  For miles in any direction, there was nothing but scrub brush, pinon and juniper trees, and some scraggly mesquite. Farther up the mountains, the landscape changed, of course, with the pinon giving way to ponderosa pines, then higher up came the firs and aspens.

  But down here, it was mainly desert with the occasional stretch of grasslands. The sky stretched on into eternity and a cold wind swept across the open land, plucking at the edges of his coat. The wheels on the road crunched over rock and dirt and the horse snorted its complaints at being rushed.

  And still he didn't answer her. "Brady?" she said, prodding as he'd guessed she would.

  Sighing, he turned to look at her. "If you knew me as well as you claim to, Patience," he said quietly, "then you'd know I don't pray and so I don't have any reason to go inside churches."

  She frowned at him, but it wasn't anger he saw in her eyes, it was a wealth of sadness. His spine stiffened instantly. He didn't need or want her pity. A humorless laugh shot through him. A crazy woman feeling sorry for him? That'd be the day.

  “You used to pray," she said finally, and the words seemed to hang in the air between them.

  Yeah, he had. If he tried, he could probably dredge up dusty memories of whispered prayers going unanswered. But why the hell would he want to?

  "I used to be no bigger than Davey too," he pointed out, in a tone that said he didn't want to discuss it. "Things change."

  "Not so much," she said, obviously intending to ignore his unspoken warning to drop the subject. Then, leaning toward him again, she added, “You're still lonely."

  The observation hit him hard, but he wouldn't let her know it. Damn it, he'd been alone for a lot of years, but that didn't necessarily make him lonely. There was a big difference between alone and lonesome. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, where he wanted. Hell, most men he knew envied Brady's life.

  Well, at least they had until Patience had stumbled into it. But by now, there were rumors and laughter racing through Fortune… at his expense. His back teeth ground together. Funny how a woman named Patience could cause so much impatience.

  "There's Santa Fe," he said, diverting her attention as he lifted one hand and pointed.

  She turned her head to stare into the distance where he pointed.

  Like a far-off island seen from the deck of a ship, the squat buildings of Santa Fe called out to him. There, he'd find peace again. There, he'd find the people Patience belonged to. Then, he'd be able to get back to his life.

  The one so many men envied.

  #

  One of the oldest cities — well, some said the oldest city — in America bustled with an eagerness that belied its humble buildings and dusty roads. Wagons raced up and down wide streets, children ran, laughing and playing, merchants pushed handcarts loaded with their wares, and pious old women draped in black shawls sat outside adobe homes, fingering their rosaries.

  The scent of beans and beef drifted on the chill wind and Patience sniffed appreciatively. She was hungry. In fact, she was ravenous. She couldn't remember ever being quite so hungry. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced guiltily at Brady.

  He grinned and her toes curled. "We'll get something to eat, then go see about my shipment."

  She nodded, and after he parked the wagon in front of a cantina, she stood up and let him help her down. His hands at her waist felt warm, solid, and sent a ripple of awareness rocketing down her spine. He set her on her feet but didn't let her go, and for one agonizing moment, she thought her knees might buckle.

  Then she looked up at him and actually watched him distance himself from her. He released her then and took a step back just for good measure. Patience swallowed back the needles of hurt poking the inside of her throat and told herself that it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was here. With him. Where she was meant to be.

  Everything else would work itself out in time.

  Being with Patience was like looking at the world for the first time.

  Brady wondered if all crazy people had this special gift for enjoying everything around them or if it was simply Patience herself. He had a feeling that it was just her.

  Watching her now as she walked through the plaza past the Palace of the Governors, he saw it all anew. The people, the colors, the long, squat adobe building that served as the seat of government. Under the overhang, on the porch, vendors sat, crouched in the shade, selling everything from silver jewelry to tamales.

  Patience walked along, inspecting it all. And Brady accompanied her, hoping that someone would see her and recognize her. But that wasn't the only reason, he thought as he watched her oohing and aahing over the merchandise displayed. A small part of him — a part he didn't want to admit to — was enjoying this time with her.

  She paused in front of an old woman selling glazed clay pottery, and as she chatted in fluent Spanish, Brady watched her, amazed. She fit right in here. As if she'd always belonged. And yet her smooth white skin told him she hadn't spent much time in the windy desert. Her Spanish was faultless — unlike his own — and her warm smile drew people to her like children to a vat of ice cream.

  She started walking again and Brady kept just a pace or two behind her. Her pale yellow dress stood out among the dusty browns and blacks like a single bolt of sunshine in the middle of a rainstorm. In fact, she damn near sparkled with an inner light that made her seem so much more alive than the people around her.

  Hell, the city itself felt more alive to him because of her.

  And all of this was beginning to worry him.

  She seemed to recognize Santa Fe, yet she acted as though she were seeing it all for the first time. She knew places, and street names. She knew where his favorite cantina was and she'd greeted the owner, Eduardo, as if they were old friends.

  Now, as they turned onto the Santa Fe Trail road, she quickened her steps, headed directly for the Loretto chapel. Just as if she'd known all along where it was.

  When she threaded her arm through his, he felt an unwelcome spurt of warmth shoot through him and he told himself that none of this mattered. He'd been charmed by women before. And nothing had come of it. Just as nothing — no matter what Patience thought — would come of this.

  "There," she said, drawing a deep breath and sighing it out again. "Isn't it lovely?"

  He glanced at the chapel, not the nearby cathedral with its two spires pointed straight at heaven. Most of the churches in town were adobe. Bricks made of mud and straw and then baked in the sun. But not the Loretto. This chapel was made of sandstone and volcanic rock. It looked like a smaller version of an engraving he'd seen once of a castle in England. Well, a castle with stained-glass windows and a slew of nuns who looked after the place and most of the children in and around town.

  J
ust being this close to the little chapel made him want to turn around and head back to the cantina for another beer. But he had a mission, and he was damn well going to complete it.

  Determinedly, then, he headed across the street, practically dragging Patience in his wake. She took two steps for every one of his, and when he glanced at her, he saw she was holding that silly little hat in place as she ran.

  He slowed down a bit and she flashed him a smile that was well worth whatever else he had to put up with today. And even as that thought presented itself, he wanted to give his own ass a good kick. He wasn't going to get pulled in by a pretty smile and a warm touch. Instead, he was going to find a place to leave Patience and then he was going back home.

  To the saloon. Where he belonged a sight more than he did a church.

  Striding right up to the double doors, he yanked one of them open and ushered Patience inside. Before he could talk himself out of it, he followed after her.

  The whole place was hushed, as if the world had drawn a breath and held it. Whitewashed walls shone in the afternoon sunlight and that same sun came pouring through the stained-glass windows, dotting the gleaming wood floor with patches of brilliant color.

  Releasing Patience, Brady reached up and took off his hat, while letting his gaze slide around the empty church. He’d been hoping to find a stray nun in here. Ask her some questions. But they were probably all over at the boarding and day school they ran.

  Uncomfortable in a place where men of his kind surely weren't wanted, he shifted and grabbed for Patience's hand. "No one here," he said quietly. "Let's go over to the school."

  "Just a minute," she said, lifting one hand to stay him and slipping out of his grasp as easily as fog sifting across the ocean. She walked farther into the chapel, headed straight for the circular staircase to her right.

  Brady tugged at the collar of his shirt. "Patience…"

  "Look, Brady," she said, motioning for him to come closer. "Isn't it beautiful?"

  He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and went to her. Anything to get her to hurry up. "What?"

  She looked at him and he swore he saw some strange brilliant light shining from her golden eyes. But in the next instant, he told himself he was imagining things.

  "This. The staircase."

  "Yeah," he said, giving it a quick look. “Real nice."

  She huffed out a breath and planted both hands on her hips. "Don't you see the wonder in it?"

  Impatient now, he took another look. What he saw was several different types of wood, all polished until they shone like multicolored mirrors, pieces fitted together to make a series of narrow steps that circled around in on itself up to a choir loft. He took another look and frowned to himself.

  "There's nothing supporting it," Patience said.

  "I just noticed that," he said and leaned in closer, turning his face up, to follow the curve of the staircase that by all rights shouldn't have been able to stand.

  "When they built the chapel, the builder forgot to leave room for a staircase to the loft." Patience ran one hand lovingly along the dark banister. "They say the nuns made a novena to Saint Joseph, asking for help. And soon after, a wandering carpenter arrived and built this staircase before disappearing into the desert again."

  "He did nice work," Brady said, nodding. "Damn — darn impressive." Being in church could really put a crimp in a man's vocabulary. Another good reason for avoiding them.

  He glanced at Patience in time to see her expression put the lie to her name. "What?" he asked.

  "Don't you see? It was Saint Joseph himself who built this staircase. He was the mysterious carpenter."

  Brady just shook his head. How was a man to argue when there wasn't a shred of logic to grab hold of? "You expect me to believe somebody from heaven dropped into Santa Fe just long enough to build a staircase?"

  "How else do you explain it?" she demanded.

  "A carpenter," he said tightly. "Just a man. A talented one."

  "And then he disappeared?"

  "He left," Brady corrected, but judging by her expression, she wasn't willing to let go of her own little fable. "Patience," he started, then stopped himself. “Nope. Not going to do it. Not going to get into another argument with you."

  "At last," she said.

  He arched an eyebrow at her. "You ready to leave now?"

  "Fine," she said abruptly and marched past him toward the door. "But if you think we're through discussing this, you're mistaken."

  Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, Brady followed her outside. Somewhere in this town, someone knew this stubborn female and he wasn't leaving until he found them.

  #

  "Are we almost home?” Patience asked two hours later from the bench seat beside him.

  The boxes of whiskey on the wagon bed behind them rattled and clanked together as they had over every inch of road from Santa Fe. The sun was setting and the wind had kicked up something fierce. He'd walked himself footsore all over Santa Fe and hadn't found a single soul who knew anything about a missing crazy woman. Patience recognized plenty of people in town, but no one claimed to know her.

  Which meant that Brady had wasted most of the day only to end up right where he'd started in the first place.

  With Patience.

  And very little patience.

  He pointed to a curve in the road. "Just beyond there. Only a few more minutes."

  "Good," she said and leaned against him, settling her head on his shoulder and threading her arm through the crook of his. "I confess, I'm tired."

  Strange, he thought, shifting a bit on the seat again. With her this close, he wasn't feeling tired. In fact, his body was alive enough to worry him. He didn't need this complication, he thought. What he needed was his life back.

  All too soon, they were pulling up in front of the saloon. Brady grabbed hold of the brake handle and yanked hard enough to snap the wood clean off. It didn't help ease the temper riding him. Muttering to himself, he jumped down from the bench seat, then looked up to see Patience standing there, waiting for his assistance.

  Hell, he didn't want to touch her again. Touching her made him forget just how much he wanted her gone. But there was just no help for it.

  Holding up his arms, he grabbed her waist when she bent over and placed her hands on his shoulders. He swung her down quickly and let her go as soon as her feet hit the mud-caked street.

  She looked up at him, cocked her head to one side, and asked, "What are you thinking, Brady?"

  What wasn't he thinking? His brain was racing at such a pace he felt as though his head might explode. But it all boiled down to one thing.

  He took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands off his shoulders. A horse and rider passed them, but neither of them made a move toward the boardwalk.

  “I'm wondering," he said, giving in to the urge to be honest, “just why it is I haven't thrown you out yet."

  Her brow furrowed slightly as she shook her head. Then reaching up, she laid one hand on his cheek and Brady tried desperately to ignore the stab of pure heat that nearly dazzled him.

  "When you were twelve years old," she said quietly, and he had to strain to hear her over the everyday sounds of town life. "You were lying belowdecks on that awful riverboat where you worked."

  Brady just stared at her as memories came rushing back, filling his mind.

  "You were hurt. Hurt too badly to even cry," she said and tears filled her eyes as she spoke. Her thumb slid across his cheekbone in a soothing touch.

  His throat tightened around a knot of emotion that felt as though it were choking him. Hurt. Yeah, he'd been hurt. Beaten black and blue by a gambler who hadn't appreciated a clumsy kid spilling a drink on his white suit coat.

  "The sound of the paddle wheel was your only company, and there in the shadows, you prayed for someone to love you." Patience smiled then and her eyes glistened through the sheen of unshed tears. "Here I am, Brady. I love you. How can you want me to leave?"

&
nbsp; Staggered, Brady felt everything inside him go cold and still. He remembered it all so well. The pain. The whispered prayer in the darkness — that had of course, gone unanswered. The sense of aloneness that had damn near crushed him.

  But what he didn't remember was Patience being there.

  Air. He needed air. And yet he couldn't drag a breath into his straining lungs. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. His stomach churned and his mouth felt like cotton. How? How did she know so much?

  He stared into her eyes and saw a flicker of confusion and worry written in those golden depths and he knew that she'd surprised herself with that little speech.

  Then she lowered her hand from his face and he felt the loss of her touch right down to his soul.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "'Bout time you got back, boss," Joe shouted as he barreled through the double doors and set them swinging so hard they slapped the walls.

  Patience shook her head, took a step back from Brady, and whispered tightly, "I have to go. Inside."

  "Just wait a damn minute," Brady said, making a grab for her. But she sidestepped him neatly, jumped up onto the boardwalk, scurried through the still swinging doors, and disappeared into the saloon.

  "Boss?" the bartender prodded.

  "Huh?" Brady said, tearing his gaze from Patience's retreating form to shoot an irritated glance at his bartender. "What?"

  "I said, you've been gone so damn long, thought maybe you wasn't comin' back."

  Grumbling to himself, Brady yanked his hat down lower over his eyes and snapped, “What the hell do you care how long I was gone?"

  Joe's eyebrows shot straight up on his forehead and he lifted both hands, palm out in mock surrender. "It ain't me, boss," he said and walked a wide berth around Brady, headed for the tailgate of the wagon. Slipping the chains and pegs loose, he lowered the back gate and grabbed the first boxful of liquor bottles. Hefting them easily, he rested the edge of the box on one shoulder and shot Brady a cautious look. “Texas Jack was here lookin' for you."

  Perfect, Brady told himself. Just what he needed to end a miserable day. Texas Jack Bigelow was a loudmouth and a cheat but he had a fair hand with a pistol and fancied himself a gunslinger. When he was sober, Jack was easy enough to dismiss with a hard glare. But when he'd been drinking, it took a lot more patience than Brady had at the moment to avoid a fight of some kind.