Keegan's Lady (8 page)

For at least a full minute after Keegan and his men rode out, Caitlin stood in the aisle, so brittle with tension she felt as if a loud sound might make her shatter. Cold. Oh, God, she felt so horribly cold. Her movements stiff, she retrieved her wrapper and slipped it on. The cotton felt icy as she tied the sash. Still cold, she wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered, her mind teetering between the past and the present, old terrors and new. Even though Ace Keegan hadn't actually touched her, she felt violated. And ashamed. It  wasn't so much what had actually happened that bothered her, but what she would have allowed to happen if he hadn't decided to walk out. What she would still allow to happen if it came to a choice between sacrificing her honor or her brother's life.

Anything for Patrick. Caitlin closed her eyes on a mounting wave of rage that glowed red against the backs of her eyelids. If not for his drinking like a fish these last three months, Patrick never would have gotten himself into such a pickle.

How dare he put her in such an impossible position? How dare he! She could be as sympathetic as the next person, but enough was enough. Shooting a prize bull?

And taking pot shots at Keegan's men? And all because he'd taken a shine to whiskey?

For almost twenty years, their father had made her life a living nightmare. She'd be damned if she would put up with more of the same from her brother. She was older now and not so helpless. Patrick was going to straighten up, or she would know the reason why.

After returning to douse the lantern, Caitlin burst into the alleyway. Ahead of her, the glow of the other lamp beckoned, its pulsating nimbus still throwing a silhouette of the empty noose against the weathered walls. With every step Caitlin took, her stride lengthened and her anger mounted until she was seething.

She found her brother sitting in the feed passage near his horse, where she presumed Keegan's men had dumped him. Beside him, they had left her rifle, the ejected cartridges lying scattered on the ground. Back slumped against the planked partition of a stall, head hanging, Patrick looked so dejected that she was brought up short.

She shoved aside her feelings of pity. That was probably more than half of Patrick's problem, that she had been making excuses for him. Well, not this time. There was no oblivion to be found at the bottom of a whiskey jug, only a wealth of heartache. He couldn't escape the truth by trying to numb himself to it.

She hugged her waist again, so angry she was shaking. Shooting a glance at Hank, who still stood just inside the doorway, she asked, "Are all of them gone?"

Though he was obscured by the shadows, Caitlin could see the elderly man well enough to tell he was leaning toward her, a hand cupped behind one ear. Raising her voice an octave, she repeated herself.

"Oh, yes'm, they're gone." Hank moved into the light, giving Patrick a look that could have pulverized granite. Then he turned a concerned gaze on Caitlin. "Are you okay, honey? Did he—"

"No," she broke in. "I'm fine, Hank. Perfectly fine."

Hank studied her for a long moment, his expression dubious. "I'm sorry I didn't step in, missy. There wasn't much I could do, what with Patrick an inch away from hangin' and all. It seemed smartest to just stand still and keep my mouth shut."

"You did the right thing, Hank. All's well that ends well. We got off lucky."

"No thanks to some I could name." The elderly cowpoke shook his grizzled head. "I reckon it ain't any of my business. In fact, I know it ain't. But I been workin' on this spread for nigh onto twenty-five years, and I'm gonna say it anyhow." He fixed another glare on Patrick. "If you keep on like you are, boy, you're gonna turn out to be one sorry excuse for a man. After seein' what whiskey did to your pappy, a body'd think you'd know better than to make the same mistake. When are you gonna get your head on straight? After it's too late? If I was younger, I'd knock some sense into you, no two ways about it."

"Thank you for coming out to help us, Hank." She glanced back at her brother, who hadn't bothered to acknowledge Hank's comments by so much as lifting his head. "Having you out here made me feel a little less alone."

Uttering those words made Caitlin feel desolate. In the recent past, it had been Patrick who'd always stood at her side, Patrick who had helped her through the rough times. She and Patrick, against their father and the world. What had happened to him that he could sit there now, a pathetic lump of whiskey-fouled flesh who couldn't even stir himself to meet her gaze?

"I wasn't much help," the old man admitted, jerking Caitlin back to the present. "Didn't dare use my equalizer, here"—he patted his rifle—"and my days of fisti-cuffin' are long since over. But I done what I could. Like you say, we was lucky."

Caitlin gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you. And, now, if you'll excuse us? I need to talk with my brother."

Hank nodded his understanding and stepped outside. Caitlin didn't bother to make sure he'd left. She began pacing in a wide circle in front of Patrick.

"So," she said sharply. "You shot Keegan's prize bull, did you? Brilliant move, Patrick. Let me guess. I'll bet you came up with that fantastic idea after you started drinking."

Patrick finally acknowledged her presence by leaning his head back against the wall. Even in the dim light, she could see the glistening trails of tears on his cheeks, and when she looked into his eyes, she forgot whatever else she meant to say.

"Hank's right, you know." He saluted her with his whiskey jug, which he upended to show that it was empty. "I'm a worthless excuse for a man, a worthless excuse for anything."

In Caitlin's memory, she'd never heard her brother's voice sound so hollow, or so hopeless. Beside him, she noticed that the dirt was splotched with telltale wetness where he had poured out the remainder of the liquor.

"I used to look at our da and hate him for being so weak," Patrick whispered in a rough voice. "For loving his whiskey more than he loved you and me. I could never understand the hold it had on him."

What rang loudest to Caitlin was what Patrick had left unsaid, that now whiskey had the same hold on him. The thought wrenched at her. How could it be that in so short a time, her brother had come to this? She stiffened her shoulders against another wave of pity. Feeling sorry for Patrick wasn't going to help him.

"You haven't been drinking long enough to be that far gone, Patrick. You could still quit, if only you'd try." Caitlin knotted her hands into fists, praying to God that what she said was true. "I refuse to listen to any tales of woe. You're the one who decided to take that first drink tonight. Only you. And you're the only person responsible for what came after. Keegan's bull? You had to know he'd come after you for pulling such a stunt. Yet you shot the animal anyway? It was madness. Utter madness."

His blue eyes glistening with tears, his face drawn with regret, he said, "I swear to you, Caitlin, I'll never take another drink. If you'll only just forgive me, I promise you, I won't."

"Where have I heard that before?"

"No, Caitlin ... I swear to you, this time I really mean it."

As determined as she'd been to give Patrick a tongue lashing he'd never forget, Caitlin realized she was quickly losing a hold on her anger. She looked deeply into her brother's eyes again and saw only heartfelt sincerity there. No lightly made promise this, but a vow. "Oh, Patrick, I believe you do truly mean it."

"I do. I promise you, I truly do." He raised one knee to support his elbow and cupped a hand over his eyes. For a moment, he appeared to be holding his breath, and then he sobbed. "Oh, God, Caitlin. I'm just like
Pa.
All it takes is a little whiskey, and I'm a stranger, even to myself." He hauled in a jagged breath. "When I realized Keegan meant to take you to the back of the barn, all I could think about was myself, and what would happen to me if you didn't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please tell me the bastard didn't hurt you. Please."

Her heart caught at the pain in his voice, and suddenly her one concern was to alleviate it. "No, no. He didn't hurt me. I swear it. I'm okay, Paddy. Honestly, I am."

Some of the tension went out of his body. After a moment, he said, "No thanks to me, just like Hank said. I can't believe I let you go back there with him. I can't believe I did it!"

"Oh, Patrick. It's the whiskey. Don't you see?" Pictures flashed in her mind of all the other crazy, unexplainable things Patrick had done recently. It made her feel as if her brother bad left on a prolonged journey and an imposter had taken his place. "It's just the whiskey."

Silence settled between them—an awful silence filled with jittery thoughts of what had just occurred. She listened to the faint sound of the pigs rutting outside in their pen, to the low bawling of the cow in her stall. Anything to avoid thinking about Keegan.

After a long pause, Patrick said, "The danger isn't entirely over, you know."

Caitlin shot an uneasy glance over her shoulder. "What do you mean, not over? Hank said they've all left. We're safe enough—for tonight, at least."

"What'll we do if those men go into town and start shooting their mouths off? If word gets out, your reputation will be destroyed."

Caitlin relaxed slightly. Keeping her reputation intact was not a major concern to her. She was more worried about things like rain checks and dealing with the very real danger of Ace Keegan's return. Not that she would dare tell Patrick that.

She went to hunker at his side and put her arms around him. "Let's not borrow trouble. Besides, remember me? The nutty sister who loves to bury her nose in a book and dream of faraway places? The one who wants to hare off to
San Francisco
and attend the opera once a week? If worse comes to worse, a tarnished reputation won't follow me that far."

"If not for me, you wouldn't still be wanting to hare off."

"Don't be silly, Patrick."

"Now that Pa's dead, what other reason is there for you to leave?"

Caitlin didn't know the answer. She only knew she wanted to go. Maybe it was the memories that haunted her here. Or perhaps it was a simple need to wipe her slate clean and start over. Regardless, now was not the time to discuss her reasons. Not when Patrick was drunk. Not when he could seem perfectly lucid one moment, and turn mad as a hatter the next.

"My passion for faraway places has nothing to do with you, boyo. I've been reading about the ballet and opera since I was knee high, and you know it. Why would you think my yearning to experience those things has anything to do with you?"

"Because I just do, that's all."

Caitlin sighed and ruffled his hair, her heart breaking a little at the self-recrimination in his expression. "Patrick, trust me. If anything, you're the one reason I might decide to stay. I love you, silly boy. Don't you know that? I admit, you've been difficult these last few months, and I've wanted to wring your neck more times than I can count. But one rough spot in all the years we've shared is hardly enough reason to make me hate you."

His mouth thinned into a grim line. "You might change your mind when you can't leave because we're making payments to Keegan for that damned bull. Before he left, he told me the only way he'll consider us even is if I pay him five thousand dollars."

Caitlin's stomach tightened. It had taken her five years to save a thousand dollars. "Did he say you could make payments?"

"Monthly." Patrick passed a hand over his eyes again. "Whatever amount I can afford."

Five thousand. The amount was staggering. And in addition to that, Keegan held a raincheck over her head to avail himself of her body. She curled her hands into tight fists. "We'll manage, Patrick. Together. We always have, haven't we?"

Patrick flashed her a glance. "I've really made a mess of things. I can't believe I shot that bull. It seems so crazy now when I—" His voice broke, and he swallowed convulsively. "I gut shot it on purpose," he whispered, "So it would die a horrible death. And then I rode off and left it bawling." He squeezed his eyes shut. "What kind of person does something like that?"

Caitlin had no answers. She wished to God she did. She couldn't imagine the brother she knew doing such a terrible thing. Patrick had always been so gentle—so caring, even with dumb animals.

"It's in my blood," he said in a voice devoid of inflection. "Sometimes I'm so much like him, it scares me to death."

"Oh, Patrick." Caitlin smoothed his hair from his brow. "You're nothing like him. Nothing. Do you understand me? I don't want to hear you say such a thing, not ever again. It's just the whiskey. You get crazy when you drink. If you keep your word and never touch the stuff again, you're going to be fine. Just fine."

With a suddenness that startled her, Patrick grabbed hold of her. Burying his face against her neck, he wept like a child, his entire body heaving. Caitlin had no idea how to ease him, so she just held him. Her heart broke a little at how big he felt in her embrace, how awkward it seemed to gather him close. He was broad across the shoulders, muscular through the arms. It had been a good long while since they'd done more than give each other a quick hug in passing. Her baby brother, whom she'd loved so long and so well, had become a man.

A tormented man.

She had no idea how long they huddled there, only that eventually his sobs subsided and his tears turned to damp streaks of salt on her skin. When he began to lean more heavily against her, she wondered if he'd passed out.