Chasing the Sun by Kaki Warner Read Free Book Online Page B

watch over them.
    Spanning the front of the house was a covered porch with a steep roof. The back porch was uncovered, with hanging balconies off his brothers’ bedrooms. Twelve bedrooms and six water closets, not counting the nursery. A strong, masculine house made of two-foot-diameter logs and weathered rock taken from their own land. Brady was proud of it.
    Of course, Jessica had tried to soften it by removing most of the taxidermy and adding ruffled pillows and lace doilies and tiny claw-footed tables that could barely hold a coffee mug. That English upbringing again. But it was still a fine house, and Brady figured if Hank didn’t blow it up with one of his innovations, it would last a century at least.
    His and Hank’s offices were on the main floor behind the library, which was where Brady was headed now. After gathering up the cut-glass decanter of Scotch whiskey and two crystal tumblers, he went next door to Hank’s office.
    The offices were mirror images of one another, each with its own fireplace flanked by bookcases, windows, and a door onto the back porch, and each furnished with two oversized leather chairs set before a broad desk. But Brady’s had the added touches of crystal and cut glass, Spanish leather desk accessories, and oil paintings depicting that ridiculous English sport of chasing after foxes—a waste of time if there ever was one. Jessica again, bless her heart.
    He had subtly countered those feminine touches by installing Bob, a ten-foot-tall stuffed grizzly with a ferocious demeanor that Jessica had banished from the main room for various reasons. Mostly the smell. Admittedly it was rank, reminding Brady of a Mexican saddle that had been cured with manure and piss then left in the rain too long. But he put up with it because in addition to serving as a fine coatrack, Bob was an excellent kid repellant.
    In contrast, Hank’s office was a disordered mess of parts, tools, projects-in-progress, and the dismantled remains of items his brother had liberated from other rooms in the house when Jessica wasn’t looking. A tinkerer’s idea of heaven.
    When Brady entered, he was hard at work on something that looked a lot like a smaller version of the boiler in the basement, God help them.
    “What’s that?” Brady asked as he searched out a clear space on the cluttered desk for the decanter and glasses.
    Hank didn’t look up. “A pop valve for a steam-powered windmill.”
    “I thought windmills were powered by wind. Hence, the name.”
    “They are, except when there’s no wind.”
    “So why isn’t it called a steam mill?”
    Hank muttered something under his breath.
    Undaunted, Brady pressed on. “And if the purpose of a wind—or steam—mill is to pump water out of the ground, where does the water come from to make the steam in the first place?”
    “Just shut up and pour the whiskey.”
    Brady poured, picked up his crystal tumbler, and settled into one of the chairs across from the desk. “It’s a righteous question.”
    Hank continued working on his whatever. Brady stared idly out the window and wondered how to ask about Molly. He didn’t like it when his family was suffering, since as head of the family, it was his job to see that they didn’t.
    He decided to jump right in. “Glad to see Molly’s feeling better.”
    That brought Hank’s head up. “What’re you talking about? Molly’s fine.”
    Brady shrugged. “Seemed upset a few days ago. Heard her crying.”
    “It happens.” Hank bent to his task again.
    “It does,” Brady agreed. “Fairly frequently, it seems.” When his brother didn’t respond, he pressed harder. “Is she mad at you?”
    “You’re nosier than a preacher’s wife, aren’t you?”
    “Jessica’s worried,” Brady defended. “We both are. We care about her.”
    With a sigh, Hank put down his tools and reached for his glass. He took a deep swallow, coughed a bit, then said, “She’s upset there’s no baby. That’s all. Now tend your own