Keegan's Lady (17 page)

Given Caitlin's striking resemblance to
Eden
, she had obviously gotten her looks from her father's side of the' family, but she had just as obviously inherited her diminutive size from her mother. The woman beside Conor O'Shannessy was a tiny little thing, not just slightly built, but fragilely so.

Conor O'Shannessy . . . Ace stared at the man's hated visage until his eyes burned. Then, with a concentrated effort, he looked away. Tonight, the old hatreds had to be set aside. This girl had had nothing to do with the atrocities committed against his parents.

His attention shifted to a framed photograph of Caitlin and Patrick below the one of their parents. He guessed Caitlin had been about ten when the likeness was taken, Patrick about eight. Even as a child, she had looked out at the world with a wary gaze, her expression guarded, her posture conveying a fierce protectiveness of her brother.

"Your mother, I take it?" He turned to regard her. "I wondered where you got that fragile build of yours. Now I know."

She straightened her shoulders, and her chin came up a notch. "I'm stronger than I look, Mr. Keegan."

Ace guessed she'd had to be. Since Patrick had taken to the bottle a few months back, she'd been doing the work of a man around this place. The thought made his guts clench. Somehow, her fierce pride made her seem all the smaller and more delicate, not the effect she was aiming for, he felt sure.

Dropping his gaze to her work roughened hands, he found himself thinking things that should have been downright alarming to a confirmed bachelor. Was he losing his mind? He didn't owe Caitlin O'Shannessy his whole goddamned life served up on a platter to make amends.

"Your mother passed away when you were very small, didn't she?"

She fastened a puzzled gaze on him. "Yes, when I was two. How did you know?"

"Just a guess." Ace could only wonder how much easier her life might have been if her mother hadn't died when she was so terribly young. "It must have been hard on you, losing her when you were so little."

"I survived."

She had survived a lot of things, Ace suspected. But that didn't mean it had been easy. That peculiar tightness came back into his throat as he watched the expressions that crossed her face. It was anyone's guess what hardships she had endured. One had only to see the shadows in her lovely eyes to know that she had suffered.

Clearly not needing or wanting his sympathy, she picked up the lantern. Ace followed her and the dancing play of light down a long hallway to a closed door that he assumed led to the kitchen. Even though he hung back by several feet, Caitlin kept glancing nervously over her shoulder at him. As if he might jump her from behind? As galling as that was, Ace didn't suppose he could blame her.

Like the front of the house, the kitchen bore signs that Caitlin O'Shannessy had learned to make do with very little. Utilitarian with its unpainted plank floors and walls, the room had nevertheless been made to look cheerful with yellow gingham curtains hung over the window and open cupboards. Colorful braided rugs lay scattered across the floor, an occasional scrap of yellow in the weave. Even the scarred plank table had been lent a touch of elegance by an embroidered dresser scarf and a dented old lard tin filled with wild roses, the hue of the blossoms an almost exact match for Caitlin's dress.

It was the kind of kitchen that invited a man to sit down and warm himself by the fire. The colorful rugs and potholders, the crisply starched curtains. Little touches from loving hands that told him a great deal about the girl who had put them there. The newness of the cloth told him another story, that Caitlin had done the decorating recently, probably after her father's death.

Not wanting to crowd his nervous hostess, Ace leaned a shoulder against the door frame. Uncertain what to do with his hands and wanting to appear as unthreatening as possible, he finally hooked his thumbs over his gun belt.

"You must have a domestic bent." He inclined his head at the dresser scarf. "Your handiwork, I take it. Or does Patrick wield a needle and thread when he isn't off slaughtering the neighbors' livestock?"

Crimson flagged her delicately hollowed cheeks. "You have a very bad impression of my brother, I'm afraid. Believe it or not, he has shot only one bull in his lifetime, and that was yours."

She set the lantern on a shelf near the cookstove and grabbed up another box of matches to advance on a swing bracket lamp along the adjoining wall. Judging by her expression, Ace wasn't sure if she meant to light the damned thing or dismantle it. He bit back a smile, pleased to see she had a little spunk. After being around his sister Eden, who thought nothing of going toe-to-toe with him, Ace wasn't sure how to deal with Caitlin, who jumped every time he made an unexpected move.

Caitlin and Eden ... As uncannily alike as the two girls were, Ace reluctantly had to admit that Caitlin was lovelier. Compared to Caitlin,
Eden
lost radiance, like a painting that had begun to fade.
Eden
's hair wasn't as deep an auburn, nor were her features as delicately etched or her skin as flawless. As for her eyes? Well, no two ways about it, Ace had never looked into more beautiful eyes than Caitlin's. The color of a summer sky, they were so deep and clear a man could get lost in them.

With a start, he realized he was doing just that. Judging by Caitlin's expression, she had said something and was expecting a response.

"Beg pardon?"

She waved a hand toward the table. "I said, please have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

She returned the box of matches to the shelf and stepped over to the wood box. While she stoked the fire in the belly of the range, Ace lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair. Like the porch and the barn, it was in sore need of repair, wobbling and groaning under his weight.

Ever conscious of her nervousness, which made him feel like a mouse at a quilting bee, he glanced around. While he'd been woolgathering, she'd lit three wall lamps. He felt badly about that, for he had a feeling lantern fuel was an expense she could ill afford. The glow of light created a golden nimbus around her fiery hair.

"It won't take a minute to get some water boiling for our tea," she said over her shoulder. "The water in the reservoir is already piping hot."

Fixing his gaze on her slender back and the feminine flare of her hips, he settled carefully back in his seat. With a little luck, the chair wouldn't collapse under him. "There isn't any big rush as far as I'm concerned. I have all night."

Hands poised in the act of dipping water from the range reservoir into a copper tea kettle, she once again threw him a startled glance. Going back over what he'd said, Ace rushed to add, "Not that I plan to stay that long."

The angry spots of color that had dotted her cheeks a moment ago drained away, leaving her face drawn and bloodless. Ace studied her with a troubled frown, wondering why she had invited him in if he made her so nervous.

She slid the tea kettle to the back of the stove, then stepped to the cupboard to get some china. While she fussed with the cups and saucers, Ace found himself being accosted by a huge yellow tabby. The cat leaped from under the table onto his knee, then dug in with all its claws to hold its perch. Not overly fond of cats, Ace was none too pleased to play pincushion. His enthusiasm took another dive when he noticed the yellow hair already clinging to his black clothes.

After giving the cat an obligatory scratch behind its ears, he gathered it up and gave it a little toss. To his horror, the overweight feline hit the floor belly first with a soft thud. For a frozen instant, Ace just stared. He'd never seen a cat land spread-eagle before.

"Well, damn."

"Oh!" Caitlin cried. Giving Ace an accusing look, she flew across the kitchen in a swirl of rose-colored skirts. The cat chose that moment to let loose with a pitiful meow.

"Lucky, my poor, sweet baby. What did that big, mean man do to you?"

"All I did was put him down."

He may as well have not spoken. Caitlin crouched to gather the squalling cat into her arms. "Oh, dumpling."

The cat was a dumpling, all right. Or, more precisely, a huge, boneless lump of flesh and fur. He eyed the creature with amazement and distaste, feeling guilty for having hurt it. "All I did was put him down. Honestly. I thought all cats landed on their feet."

Hugging the cat close and caressing the top of its head with her cheek, she fixed him with that same accusing gaze. "Not all cats. Lucky is tetched. Surely you could see that."

Tetched? Ace's gaze shot back to the cat. Now that he thought about it, the poor thing did have a funny look about the eyes. An unfocused, daft sort of look. "What exactly do you mean by tetched?"

"He got his head banged when he was little," she explained. "Afterward, he was never quite the same."

So the cat was brain damaged. In Ace's opinion, it might have been kinder to put the animal down, but he refrained from saying so. Caitlin clearly loved her pet.

Ace smiled slightly as he watched her set the cat gently on the floor. It took Lucky a moment to get his balance. Caitlin gave him a pat on his fanny to send him on his way, then pushed to her feet as the feline waddled off. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I suppose tetched cats are something of a rarity."

"You could say that. I apologize for hurting him. I didn't mean to."

"I should have been keeping a closer eye out. He isn't very smart, I'm afraid." She brushed her hands clean. "If something frightens him, he's just as likely as not to hide under the stove when there's a roaring fire in the box."

Ace glanced at the stove. "Surely he comes out when it starts to feel hot?"

"No. He doesn't seem to realize it's the stove making him feel uncomfortable." Flicking cat hair from her bodice, she moved back across the kitchen. "I keep a broom handy, just in case."

"I've heard of people and animals without enough sense to come in out of the cold, but never the reverse." Just the thought of a poor, stupid animal hiding under a stove until it caught fire prompted him to say, "Has it occurred to you that you may not be doing Lucky a kindness?"

"How so?" Her eyes reflected her incredulity as his meaning sank in. "You can't mean you think I should"—her gaze flicked to the gun on his hip—"put him to sleep?"

The expression on her face told Ace that he'd just cemented all her worst opinions of him. Why that bothered him, he didn't know. But it did. Thinking fast, he said, "No, I meant—well, I was just thinking that it might be better if you took measures to see he never came into the kitchen. What if he gets under the stove sometime when you're not around?"

"He doesn't go under there unless someone scares him, I told you."

To be precise, she had said "something" not "someone," but Ace was too busy wondering who had frightened the poor cat to point out the difference. Not Caitlin, certainly. That left only Patrick or one of their hired men.

After working the pump to rinse her hands, Caitlin gathered up the china. As she moved toward the table with her burden, she trembled so badly the dainty little cups did a perilous jig .upon their fluted saucers. So much for his quick thinking. Now, in addition to gun-slinger and gambler, he had another count against him, cat killer.

He eased forward on the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. "Caitlin, it really isn't necessary for you to go to all this trouble. I don't actually even want a cup of tea. Wouldn't it be better if we—"

"Oh, surely you'll have some tea first!" Setting the cups and saucers on the table with a loud clatter, she fixed a pleading gaze on him.

Ace sighed. "Caitlin, I—"

Cutting him off, she rushed on to say, "Neither one of us stayed for the buffet at the social. I'm absolutely famished. Aren't you?"

She whirled away to advance on another cupboard. A second later, she returned to the table with a covered plate. Whipping away the checkered towel, she presented him with a golden mound of sugar cookies.

"They're not exactly what you could call hot from the oven, but I did make them only this afternoon."

At just that moment, the teapot whistled. The shrill sound startled her so that she leaped and sent the pile of baked goods sliding off the plate. Ace forgot all about the weak chair joints and lunged forward to make a wild grab. Cookies went everywhere—over the table and the a floor as well.

Caitlin stood in the middle of the mess, her white knuckled hand still clasping the plate, her mouth quivering, eyes welling. Seeing her tears was the killing blow. Ace sensed she wasn't the type to cry easily, and probably never in front of anyone. That was made obvious by the frantic way she kept blinking to dry her eyes.

"Caitlin, sweetheart, please, don't cry. I swear to God, I'd rather you took a horsewhip to me."

Setting aside the cookies he'd caught, he pushed up from the chair and took the plate before she dropped it. Then he started picking up the cookies that had fallen on the floor. Her fear of him was so intense it seemed almost palpable—a cold, thick, electrical feeling in the air. To know that he had caused it—that he deserved it—made him feel sort of sick.

"I never intended to hang him, you know," he heard I himself say. "The rope was ringed and would have snapped when his weight hit the end. I just meant to teach him a lesson." He glanced up, saw the incredulity reflected in her gaze, and said, "Where's the goddamned rope? I'll happily prove it to you."