Keegan's Lady (33 page)

Yet she felt flawed. He'd seen it in her eyes.

Why, that was the question. Was it merely because of the kind of man her father had been? Or something more?
March 12, 1879
. From that day on, Caitlin had stopped making entries in her diary. I pray I can forget. Something had happened to her. Something so terrible she'd tried to wipe it from her memory.

As her husband, it was up to him to find out what. He had a bad feeling that might be easier said than done.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The loft was wonderfully dark and quiet. Caitlin huddled in the back corner, legs drawn to her chest, forehead pressed against her bent knees. All she wanted was to be left alone. Just for a few minutes. Until she could gather her composure. Until her anger ebbed. Until her stomach stopped roiling.

Ace had been goading her, deliberately trying to make her furious. In retrospect, she saw that. Only the realization came a little late. She'd revealed too much to him. Would have revealed more if she hadn't gotten away.

She dug in hard at her knees with her fingernails, enraged at herself and at him. Stupid. She felt so stupid. Like a chess piece. He'd skillfully maneuvered her around the board, until he had her just where he wanted her.

She never volunteered to talk about her father. Not about the beatings. Not about her and Patrick's futile attempts to run away. She'd never even discussed it much with Bess or Doc Hailoway, who, aside from her brother, were her very best friends in the whole world. Trying to talk about it was like pouring alcohol on a wound.

That was how she felt now, as if her skin were raw with abrasions and Ace Keegan had slopped whiskey all over her. She felt as if she might get sick, her belly twisting and cramping, a hot acidic sensation at the back of her throat that wouldn't go away.

Why have you stayed there and taken it?

He was just like everyone else. No one but Patrick had ever understood what it was like to live with someone like their father. Other people didn't have an inkling. Maybe because they didn't really want to. It had been easier to turn their heads, to tell themselves things weren't really all that bad out at the O'Shannessy place.

All children tried to run away sometimes, they'd told themselves. All children hated their parents sometimes. All children got it into their heads at some point that they were sorely mistreated. By lying to themselves, the people of No Name had avoided feeling guilty.

If Conor said his boy had tripped over a shovel and bruised his cheek, then that was what had happened. If Conor said his girl had fallen off a fence and broken her wrist, who were they to question him?

No one had had the guts to stand up to Conor O'Shannessy. That was the truth of it. A whole town full of cowards.

Was she angry? Ace had asked her.

How on earth did he think she felt? The word "angry" didn't come close to describing it. She doubted there was a word that could. From birth, she'd been imprisoned with a monster as her warden, and she'd been unable to seek help for fear of his retaliation. In the early years, before she'd begun to realize that people preferred to ignore her plight, she couldn't count the times she'd looked into the eyes of an adult, silently pleading for rescue.

She had soon learned there were few heroes in the world. As a child, she'd wished on stars. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight. And her wish had always been for a hero. A man who would step forward out of the crowd. Someone big and strong, who'd fight for her and Patrick. Someone who'd steal them away. Someone kind and wonderful, with a big deep laugh, who gave hugs and read stories and bought sugar to make candy. Someone who would hit her and Patrick only when they were naughty, not when they were trying their hardest to be good.

Instead of getting her wish, her pleading looks had been all but ignored. The owner of the general store had given her candy and patted her on the head. The man at the livery had let her feed his horses apples. The proprietor of the dry goods store had given her a porcelain-faced doll, then later, scraps of calico to make a rag doll because her father had flown into a rage and torn the first doll apart. No one was going to spoil Conor O'Shannessy's children by giving them highfalutin' gifts they didn't deserve.

Only one man in town had ever stepped forward and offered to help her, and that had been Doc Halloway, a little man with the heart of a hero and the body of a plump, oversized elf. She'd been afraid to accept Doc's offer of help, afraid that her father might hurt him if he tried to interfere.

All the other men who might have been able to hold their own against Conor had been kind as they sent her on her way. All of them had turned their heads or pretended not to see. Until finally, she stopped looking into their eyes. Stopping wishing and hoping. Not because she no longer yearned to escape, but because she came to realize that big, strong men seldom spent much time worrying about others. They were too concerned with their own wants and needs, many of which they satisfied at the expense of people weaker than themselves.

Was she angry? Oh, yes, she was angry. A burning kind of anger she'd long since tamped down and buried inside herself because it was useless to expend energy on it. Besides, she was tired. Awfully, horribly tired.

Twenty-two years. And now her brother was following in their father's footsteps. She felt so helpless. Helpless to save him. Helpless to save herself. All her life, she'd felt like a fly on tacky paper, frantically trying to get free. And then, just when she'd finally escaped her father's dominion, Ace Keegan had come along, and here she was, trapped again.

She wanted to hate him. Wanted to with all her heart! But he kept her so off balance by being kind, she couldn't hold fast to the emotion. Giving her a knife last night. Telling her he was sorry a few minutes ago. He could be relentless and ruthless. But just when she began to despise him for it, he changed tactics.

He was very good at playing games. And that's all this was to him, a game. He'd admitted as much. I'm winning. He studied her all the time just as he might an opponent over a poker table, watching her expressions, searching her gaze with eyes that saw too much. He made her feel naked. And powerless.

What did he want with her? That was what troubled her most. Why would a man as handsome as he force a woman to marry him? She couldn't believe he was that lonely, or that desperate. He wanted her to believe he felt responsible for her, that because he'd destroyed her reputation he felt obligated to marry her. Only she couldn't quite credit that. No one but Doc and Bess and Patrick had ever cared what happened to her before, so' why should he? He scarcely knew her, and he knew next to nothing about her past.

Did he really expect her to believe he was that much better a person than everyone else in No Name? That he had only altruistic reasons for making her his wife? Most people didn't do things for someone else, at great cost to themselves, unless there was something in it for them. He had to have an ulterior motive. No man would just up and marry a woman he barely knew out of the goodness of his heart.

A sudden creak of wood brought Caitlin's head up. She cocked her head to listen. Below the loft, chickens pecked the dirt, clucking among themselves. Occasionally, a horse kicked the wall of its stall.

Creak. Her gaze shot to the loft ladder. She held her breath, waiting, hoping no one was climbing up it. At the other side of the loft, she'd seen blankets and pillows. Ace's brothers slept up here. With her luck, it would be one of them, coming up for a mid-morning snooze.

A dark hand appeared over the highest ladder rung. Then a black head of hair. Ace. He braced the heel of a hand on the wood and vaulted over the half-wall with such power and grace it made her heart skitter. When his boots bottomed out in the loose hay, he caught his balance, then swung his ebony head around, his gaze routing through the dimness. When he spotted her, he grew still, his eyes moving slowly over her, seeming to miss nothing.

"I thought you were probably up here."

He started toward her, his gait lurching as his feet found the solid surface of bales one moment, loose hay the next. The powerful muscles in his legs bunched with every movement, drawing his black denim pants taut over his thighs. His upper body was just as impressive, shoulders and arms flexing under his black shirt as he swung for balance.

To her relief, he didn't join her in the corner, but chose instead to sit on a stair-step stack of bales, hands braced on the compressed hay, long legs extended and slightly bent, the toes of his gleaming black boots turned inward for leverage.

He had positioned himself between her and the ladder.

Caitlin hugged her knees more tightly, afraid of him as she'd never been of any other man. He had so much power over her. Her husband. If he chose to throw her down in the hay—to tear her clothes off and roughly take her—no one would stop him. Indeed, no one would even raise an eyebrow. She was his wife, his property. He could do what he liked with her, and for as long as he wished.

He was staring at her again. He made her feel like a difficult mathematical equation he was trying to decipher.

"The train kind of got off its tracks out there by the corral," he said huskily. "I originally followed you out here to apologize and tell you I intend to go see Patrick this afternoon."

"Patrick?"

He scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “I stepped out of line this morning, telling him he couldn't come around. I won't apologize for hitting him. But I will retract what I said about his not being welcome here. He's your brother, and you love him. If you want to see him, that's your right, and I've got no business making it difficult for you."

He was doing it again, being kind. Caitlin stared at him, so filled with gladness she nearly leaped up and hugged him. Instinctive wariness held her rooted. He made her feel as if she were treading over ice, and that if she let him, he'd lure her onto a thin spot.

"Thank you."

The words sounded toneless and hollow, not at all filled with gratitude. She supposed she was being unforgivably rude. It was a generous gesture on his part. Butl she couldn't bring herself to lower her defenses. He was a trickster, this man, a calculating, manipulative trickster. He did nothing off the cuff, and if she let herself trust him, she would end up paying dearly for it.

She forced her mind back to the subject at hand. The thought of him and Patrick having another confrontation made her stomach twist. The cramp knifed from her navel to her groin, an awful, ripping sensation that made her grit her teeth. She was beginning to wonder if she wasn't coming down with something. And wouldn't that a fine kettle of fish, sick in bed with only Ace Keegan to  play nursemaid? Just the possibility made her stomach hurt worse.