Keegan's Lady (13 page)

"Not bad, considering the wear it's had. But you've done a little growing."

"Growing?" Caitlin immediately guessed what he’d meant and plucked at her bodice. The neckline had always been just a trifle more revealing than she considered seemly, and now that her measurements had increased, it was even more so. "Does it look that bad? Maybe I should go back home and—"

"No, no!" Laughing, he held up a hand. "It looks fine for now. It's just that you need new dresses, and I'm looking forward to buying you some, that's all."

The twang of another fiddle drifted through the night, catching Patrick's attention. He seemed to forget all about railroad speculation and new dresses as they; covered the last quarter block to the hall. Flashing him; another smile, she said, "Once we get in there, try to remember you have a sister. I wouldn't mind taking a few turns on the dance floor."

"Like you won't have plenty of opportunities to dance."

"You know I don't like to dance with just anybody."

"Yeah? Well, if you weren't so standoffish, you might be married and have a passel of kids by now. Did you ever think of that?"

"Dealing with you," she said lightly, "is about all the frustration I can handle, brother of mine."

Patrick chuckled at the jibe. "I'm not that frustrating, surely."

She pretended to mull that over. "Well, maybe not quite. You come in handy on occasion, especially when I want to dance."

He looped his free arm around her shoulders and gave her a jostling hug. "I'll try to work you in for a number or two, then."

"Only one or two?"

"I'll be busy," he said with a wink. "I have to dance with all the pretty girls, you know. If I leave anyone out, her heart will be broken. It's a terrible responsibility, being such a handsome devil."

Out in front of the hall, wagons were parked helter-skelter. The horses, left to pass the evening in lines and traces, had already hung their heads to snooze. At the back of one wagon, a woman was bent over the tailgate, changing her baby's diaper. Inside the wagon, two toddlers were sprawled on makeshift beds. Recognizing the woman as Mary Baxter, an acquaintance since childhood, Caitlin raised a hand to wave. Evidently Mary didn't see her, for she failed to wave back.

"What's the matter with her?" Patrick asked.

Caitlin shrugged. "She probably didn't recognize me. It is almost dark."

Inside the community hall, the hum of conversation was loud and ceaseless. Caitlin glanced nervously around in search of familiar faces. There was one in particular she hoped she wouldn't see.

Patrick gave their tickets to the door attendant, then turned to hang her creamcolored shawl on a wall hook. "Where do I put this other stuff?" he asked, gesturing at the bread and pandowdy he held under an arm.

"We put all the food tables along the back wall."

Strategically placed lanterns bathed the hall in light, but the place was so crowded one could see only a few feet in any direction, Caitlin went up on her toes, trying to look over the top of the crowd to determine the best direction for Patrick to take. Most of the people seemed to be gathered around the dais in the center of the room where the musicians were tuning their instruments.

"Over there," she said, pointing left.

Patrick shouldered his way past a group of men, taking care that there was room for her to squeeze beside him. All kinds of people were there, from men in suits and women in silk gowns to farming couples in dungarees and calico. Caitlin scanned the room for a tall, ebony haired man dressed in black and was relieved when she didn't see him. A social was probably too tame for a big city gambler and gunslinger.

As they passed yet another knot of people, she got the oddest sensation, a prickly feeling at her nape. When she glanced around, everyone whose gaze she encountered looked hurriedly away. She shot a meaningful look at Patrick.

"Do I have a button undone?" she whispered.

He gave her bodice a glance. "No. Is my barn door open?"

She stifled a nervous giggle. "No, so why is everyone staring at us?"

"You got me. I feel like I've grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead."

"Oh, look, Patrick, there's Bess!" Caitlin went up on tiptoe to wave.

Bess Halloway, a slender blond dressed in emerald green, waved back and began working her way through the crowd. "Caitlin!" she cried as she drew near. "I was beginning to think you'd never come. There's something important we need to talk about."

Speaking loudly to be heard over the din, Patrick said, "Talk, talk, talk. I swear, that's the only reason Caitlin gets involved in these fund-raising projects, so she can flap her jaw at you." Flashing Bess a grin, he took the custard dish from Caitlin's arms. "I'll go put this stuff on the table and come right back."

Waving her brother off, Caitlin turned back to Bess, who had the distinction of being her one real friend. Doc Halloway's niece, Bess had been a frequent visitor at his dispensary when she and Caitlin had been younger. Bess had even been present a few times when Caitlin had crept in to seek medical treatment after one of her father's drunken rages. But Bess had proven to be a trustworthy friend, for she'd never breathed a word to anyone of what she knew about Caitlin's home life.

Over the years, Caitlin had come to value her friendship with Bess dearly, something she couldn't say about her guarded relationships with other young women. Bess never pried. She never looked curiously at Caitlin, as if she were trying to see deeper than Caitlin wanted her to see. In short, she was one of those rare individuals who offered friendship and support without condition.

"It's so good to see you," Caitlin told her in all sincerity. "We hardly got to talk yesterday." She glanced around. "Where's that handsome husband of yours?"

"He went up to
Denver
with his pa on a cattle-buying trip. A last-minute thing. I came with his ma." Bess toyed nervously with a blond curl at her temple, her green eyes dark with worry. "Caitlin, there's a problem."

"Uh-oh," Caitlin said teasingly. "Don't tell me the honeymoon is already over. It's only been—what?—six months."

"Everything is wonderful between Brad and me. This is about something else, Caitlin, and I haven't a clue how to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Again Caitlin got that prickly feeling. She glanced up to find that half the people in the hall seemed to be staring in her direction, some of them whispering behind cupped hands.

Bess tended to be a calm young woman. Caitlin took it as a bad sign when she began wringing her slender hands. "It's Hank. Hank Simmons, your hired man? He's over at the saloon, Caitlin, and drunk as a skunk. From what I understand, he's trying to muster up some volunteers to go with him to teach Ace Keegan some manners."

Caitlin's stomach dropped. "Oh, no."

"I hate to repeat the story that's circulating." Bess touched a fingertip to her mouth, then whispered, "I don't believe a word of it. Not a word. But Hank is telling people that Keegan—well—" She made a frantic little, motion with her hand. "That he made you an indecent proposition, and you went along with it to save Patrick. That they were going to hang him, or some fool thing."

Caitlin closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, Bess's face had turned crimson. "I detest repeating gossip, especially to the person being talked about. But I felt you needed to know. I'm sorry."

Caitlin shook her head, then cast about for her brother. She had nearly given up when she caught a glimpse of his red hair near the door. He was leaving, she realized, and judging by his expression, he was mad enough to chew nails and spit out screws. He must have already heard the news about Hank and was headed over to the saloon to find him.

The trouble with that was twofold. From the sound of it, Hank had already destroyed her reputation beyond repair, and for another, if he entered the saloon, Patrick would be placing himself directly in temptation's way.

Shaking free of Bess, Caitlin shouldered a path through the crowd, but by the time she got to the door, Patrick was nowhere in sight. The saloon was only about halfway up the block. She guessed her brother had already gone inside.

"You okay?"

Caitlin glanced around to find Bess standing almost on top of her. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a little worried about Patrick. Remember, I told you he quit drinking? Now I think he's gone over to the saloon to find Hank."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he'll have a drink," Bess said reasonably.

Remembering Patrick's plea that she place some faith in him, Caitlin assured herself that Bess was absolutely right. Stepping into the saloon for a minute didn't mean her brother might lose control.

With a sigh, she turned from the door to face the judgmental stares again. It occurred to her that Bess might be wise to make herself scarce. Women were judged by the company they kept, and Caitlin's reputation was in tatters.

Not that Bess would desert her. She was that good a friend, the sort to stand fast through good times and bad. Fishing in her pocket for her watch, Caitlin checked the time. She would give Patrick until nine, she decided. If he didn't make it back within an hour, he probably wasn't coming, and there would be little point in her staying after that.

On a par with Caitlin's somber mood, one of the fiddlers struck a mournful chord. The next instant, boisterous and earsplitting music filled the hall. The sound of the string instruments dug at her temples, and stomping feet sent shudders through the plank floor. Only a short while ago, she had looked forward to the cacophony. Now all she could think about was getting out of there and going home. To the peace, and the quiet, where she needn't worry that a tall, dark-haired gun-slinger might appear at any moment.

CHAPTER SIX

Over the next few minutes, Caitlin began to feel like a bug impaled on a pin. It was horrible being stared at by so many people. She kept wanting to check to be sure the hem of her skirt hadn't hiked up.

To make matters worse, her rose-colored gown was a trifle tight, just as Patrick had pointed out, and it seemed to be growing smaller by the minute. She was starting to feel like ten pounds of peaches stuffed into a five-pound bag. Social mores dictating, she'd had to wear a corset. A lady simply didn't go around without the proper undergarments. Unfortunately, like the dress she wore, her corset had been purchased five years ago for a far less ample figure. The contraption of whalebone and elastic made her protrude in places she never had in her life, and half the single men in town seemed bent on ogling the display.