Keegan's Lady (9 page)

"Patrick?" she whispered.

He stirred slightly. "Don't hate me, Caitlin. I'm sorry I didn't stop you from going back there with him. I was just so scared. I'll never get drunk like this again. I promise I won't. Not ever."

She ran a hand over his hair again and smiled slightly. As frightening as her encounter with Keegan had been, it would be almost worth it if Patrick would stop drinking. For weeks, she'd been racking her brain, trying to think of some way to turn Patrick around. Now, it seemed, her prayers had been answered. In a most unlikely and unpleasant way, to be sure, but having her brother back again was all she truly cared about.

"Come along, boyo. I'm thinking it's time you got to bed. A fine state of affairs it will be if you pass out here in the barn. Come morning, it will be a mite cold, you can bet on that."

Patrick drew away from her and made a gallant effort to stand on his own. Unfortunately, his legs didn't seem to be cooperating. Caitlin looped his arm over her shoulders and strained to stand bearing his weight. After several aborted attempts, they finally managed to gain their feet.

"Holy Mother, Patrick, how much whiskey did you drink?" she asked as they staggered sideways.

"Too much."

She laughed in spite of herself. Too much? Oh, what a silver-tongued devil her brother had become. She tightened her arm around his waist and set off determinedly for the house, taking one step sideways for every two she took forward.

Practice had perfected Caitlin's technique when it came to handling semiconscious drunks. She had long since learned that the most important thing was to get a man bedded down someplace warm so he could sleep it off, be it on the floor or the bed. She had never bothered with stripping off clothes. Removing a man's boots and his gun belt was enough of a struggle, and all that was really necessary.

It took approximately ten minutes to get Patrick into bed and another ten to return to the barn to care for his horse. Only then did she have time to reflect on what had happened between her and Ace Keegan in the horse stall. A raincheck, he'd said. That had to mean he intended to come back.

After assuring herself that Patrick was peacefully asleep, Caitlin returned to bed herself, but sleep eluded her. She couldn't forget the anger she'd seen burning in Keegan's eyes. Should she go to the marshal? The thought was tempting. Then again, what might Keegan do if she reneged on her promise and went for help? After all, unless they sold the ranch, they wouldn't be able to spare much money to make payments to the man, certainly not enough to appease his anger.

She squeezed her eyes closed, her mind filled with images of Patrick out on the range someplace, shot in the back or beaten to death. If Keegan felt she’d tricked him, might he not kill Patrick just as he'd originally planned?

The thought kept Caitlin awake and shivering long into the night. Unless she missed her guess, Keegan would be back, and she would be honor bound to fulfill her part of their bargain. If she refused, her brother's life could be at stake.

***

Blowing in off snow that lay high in the
Rockies
, the night wind seemed every bit as cold to Ace as it had twenty years ago. Hunching his shoulders against the bite, he listened to the high-pitched wail and recalled how he had once likened it to that of a lonely specter. He guessed some things never changed; only now the ghosts had names, his own among them. For Jamie Keegan, the boy he'd once been, was long since dead.

Tipping his head back, Ace gazed at the network of tree limbs above him. It hardly resembled the towering oak of his nightmares. As oak trees went, this one wasn't all that big, and it certainly wasn't sinister. He couldn't even recall for sure from which of the limbs Joseph had been hung. Of course, over a period of twenty years, the tree had grown and changed. If it hadn't been for other landmarks, Ace wouldn't have been sure this was even the same place.

Ah, but this was it. No mistake about that. Just over the rise to his right was the meandering creek and bathing spot he remembered so well. To his left was the flat area where his stepfather had chosen to make camp that fateful night so many years ago.

For the last three months, ever since his return to No Name, Ace had been coming to this spot in the evening right after the sun went down. He didn't suppose he could say that he actually came to visit with Joseph, for intellectually he knew he couldn't visit a dead man, but emotionally that was his intent. To whisper of his plans. To speak of things deep in his heart. To hope that in some way Joseph knew he was here and that it was only a matter of time until old wrongs would be set aright. As right as Ace could make them, at any rate.

Tonight was the first time Ace had come here feeling any trace of doubt or uncertainty about what he was doing. Tacked to the massive tree trunk beside him, a tattered news clipping rustled in the breeze. He'd taken the clipping from the No Name Gazette and hung it here himself, a headline in bold block letters that heralded the financial death of Joseph's murderers, no name finally gets RAILROAD spur. It was the sort of retaliation Joseph would have approved of, a swindling of the swindlers. No violence. Only the predatory and the heartless would get hurt. An ironic twist at the end of the story.

Exposed to the weather as it had been, the clipping was beginning to disintegrate, and much of the ink, diluted by rain, had bled into the bark. To Ace, that seemed fitting, a symbolic missive to the dead, a declaration of his intentions, so to speak. Only now, he felt as if he'd gone back on his word. Someone innocent had been hurt, after all.

Caitlin O'Shannessy . . . God, he couldn't get the image of her face out of his mind. The fear in her eyes. The flaming spots of color that had flagged her otherwise pale cheeks when she'd begun unfastening the buttons of her nightgown. How could he have done such a thing?

With each rise and fall of the wind, the tree limbs above Ace's head whipped and then settled, whipped and then settled, their leaves whispering loudly, then tapering off into a sigh. To Ace, they seemed to be calling Joseph's name, an endless litany in honor of a man whose passing had otherwise gone unmarked. Even the mound of Joseph's grave under the oak tree had been worn away by time, the wooden marker fashioned by a young boy's hands long since lost to the elements. It seemed so sad to Ace—so incredibly sad. This place should have been permanently scarred by what had happened here.

Gazing out over the endless sweep of rolling grassland, he could see, stark against the horizon, the outline of the sprawling log house he and his brothers had begun building three months ago. Except for the interior finish work, the structure was almost completed, nine months ahead of schedule, according to Ace's calculations. Back in
San Francisco
, he had projected that it would take three months alone just to erect the house, and that hadn't been counting the six to nine months he'd figured it might take to get possession of the land. Patrick O'Shannessy had helped expedite matters by making the mistake of sitting across from Ace in a poker game.

Usually, seeing the house filled Ace with a sense of accomplishment. He was so close to success, damn it. So close. It was too late to start having doubts, too late to call things off. After nearly twenty years of work, he was about to see his stepfather's dream become a reality. The Paxtons would work the land Joseph had died for. They would marry, have children, live and die here. All Ace had to do was see things through to the end.

Until tonight, it had all seemed simple. Now, he realized that the stakes were higher than he'd ever dreamed. How much was his burning hatred for Joseph's killers costing him? Or, perhaps more accurately, how much was he willing to sacrifice for it? When all of this was over, would there be anything decent left within him?

CHAPTER FOUR

Thanks to Ace Keegan and his
midnight
raid, Caitlin felt unaccountably nervous the next morning when she went to fix breakfast. Jumping at her own shadow, her da would have called it. Her cat Lucky gave her a bad turn when he leaped out from under the sink unexpectedly. Then Hank came pounding on the door, the suddenness of his knock startling her yet again. By the time Patrick stumbled into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, she was growing accustomed to having her heart in her throat.

The kitchen was cloaked in predawn shadows, yet Caitlin hesitated to light another lamp. One was aplenty, and really all that they could afford. Lantern fuel cost money, and they had pitifully few pennies to waste.

As if he read her thoughts, Patrick said, "God, Caitlin, I realize you're trying to save money, but do you have to make the coffee this weak? I swear I could make stronger if I tied a bean to a duck's tail and ran downstream to catch a cup of water."

"Oh, now, Patrick," she scolded. "It isn't that weak. Things are lean right now. I've told you that. We have to cut expenses every way that we can, and if that means making weak coffee, so be it. We have to start making payments on that bull now, remember. Where else will we come up with the money if not by economizing?"

Angling her body sideways to keep from getting smoke in her face, Caitlin thrust another length of oak into the fire and replaced the range lid. Inside the stove, the wood ignited quickly, sizzling and crackling like hundreds of muffled firecrackers. Despite everything that had happened last night and might still happen, the sound cheered her. After all, Patrick was unharmed, and for the moment, so was she.

For the moment. . . There was the catch and the main reason she was so jumpy, she guessed. Because she knew Ace Keegan might come back. When was the question.

"Patrick," she said hesitantly, "I've been thinking."

Her brother fixed her with a bleary gaze. "Uh-oh. That's always dangerous."

Caitlin tried to smile, but the attempt went awry. Her insides felt as if they were being fed through a laundry wringer. "This business about the bull and making payments.. ." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "I know I said we would manage somehow, when we discussed it last night, but the more I think about it, the less certain I am that we actually can. We barely make ends meet now."

Patrick glanced around, as though in frantic search of something. Caitlin knew he was craving a drink, and she felt awful for broaching this subject at a moment when he was so vulnerable. It was just that she didn't see any choice. Keegan was a reality they couldn't ignore, a threat that wouldn't go away.

"We have to manage," her brother said wearily. "We just have to, that's all."