Keegan's Lady (16 page)

Ace made fast work of rubbing down the mare so they could get out of there. Caitlin saw to measuring the feed and hauling over fresh water.

"Shall I douse the light?" he asked when she stepped into the passage and closed the stall gate.

Instead of replying, she rose on tiptoe to lower the lantern wick herself. Darkness swept over them. Ace paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. When he could see once more, he said, "Well, I guess that's that."

He turned to see Caitlin still standing beneath the extinguished lantern, one hand splayed on the stall gate, her other extended in front of her. Recalling the incredibly rough wagon ride she'd just treated him to, he couldn't help but grin.

"Caitlin, are you night blind?"

"Not at all," she said a little too quickly, then took a couple of hesitant steps. "It's just so dark in here. Don't tell me you can see?"

"I won't say I can see good enough to count your freckles, but I can see."

"I don't have freckles." She moved farther forward, patting the air before her as she went. "I hate it in here at night," she said, her voice ringing with tension. "Why on earth don't they build barns with more windows?"

The barn was so tumbledown and had so many cracks, there was plenty of moonlight for most people to see by.

"Here, let me help you," he said and grasped her elbow. She jumped as if he'd stuck her with a pin. "Whoa ... I just"—he steered her around a galvanized tub—"mean to lend you a hand, that's all."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking by myself," she assured him, waving her other arm rather wildly in front of her.

"I can see you are," he replied in a voice thick with suppressed laughter.

"Well, then?"

He tugged on her arm slightly so she'd miss stumbling over a shovel blade. "Well, then, what?"

“Well, then"—the exaggerated patience in her voice made it sound as if she were addressing an imbecile— "why don't you turn loose of me?"

Ace was tempted. Six inches to her right was a manure gutter. "We're almost there," he assured her.

"Almost where?"

He thrust his free hand directly in front of her nose. She never so much as blinked. Another smile warmed his chest. The barn entrance ahead of them was at least twelve feet wide, and moonlight poured through the opening in generous measure. "To the doors, Caitlin. Can't you see them?"

"Of course I can."

As they came up on the entrance, he did as she'd suggested and released her. Cast adrift, she stumbled and swung around, her eyes wide and staring, her slender hand groping. "Where are you?" she asked faintly.

"Right here."

She jerked and pressed a hand over her heart. "Dear heavens!"

A man seldom given to spontaneous laughter, Ace was surprised to hear himself chuckle. Not feigned laughter, but a genuine, straight-frorh-the-belly chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to give you a start."

Grasping her by the elbow again, he guided her the few remaining steps outdoors. She gave an audible sigh of relief. "Light. Thank goodness."

He settled his hands on his hips, acutely conscious of the fact that she sidled away the instant he released her. "Well. . ." He left the word hanging, not entirely sure what to say. He only knew he didn't want to leave without settling matters between them. "Caitlin, about the other night."

"Yes?" she said, her voice quavery.

"I hope you'll excuse me for hemming and hawing, but the truth is, I'm really not sure how we should proceed from here."

"You aren't?" she asked, sounding mildly horrified.

Ace wondered if, maybe, she was hoping for a proposal of marriage. He couldn't blame her, if that was the case. He just wasn't sure how he felt about it. He scratched beside his nose. "It's not exactly your usual situation."

"No. It certainly—isn't."

Marriage. The word hung in his mind like a six-shooter with the hammer cocked. If a proposal was what she was angling for, he wished she'd just come straight out with it. Was that why she was so palpably nervous? Because she saw no other way out, and she wasn't sure how he would react? Ace had to admit, his first inclination was to run like hell. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he could and still like himself. Not if that was what she wanted.

"I, um . . ." He sniffed and cleared his throat. "Look, Caitlin. Let's be up front with each other, all right? No matter how we circle it, you're going to be the one who suffers the most from this. A man ... well, it isn't so difficult for a man. You know what I mean?"

She looked as if she might faint.

"Are you all right?"

She gave a slight nod. "I—yes, I'm all right."

Ace's nose felt as if it were about to itch off. He scratched again, searching for words. "Well, anyway . . ." He scuffed a boot, glanced around the yard, then brought his gaze back to her. "I guess maybe what I’m trying to say is, since you're the one who'll suffer most, maybe you should be the one to call the shots. What would you like to see us do?"

She gulped, the sound a hollow plunk at the base of her throat. "Mr. Keegan, I really haven't much experience with situations like this."

He puffed air into his cheeks, then slowly exhaled through his clenched teeth. "Yeah, well. . . that's two of us. I don't want to make myself sound bad, but the truth is, I’ve steered clear of respectable women for this very reason."

Her pupils dilated until her eyes looked nearly black. "I do believe I'd like to make one request."

Ace almost dropped to his knees and gave thanks. Anything, just to have all the decision-making off his shoulders. "What's that?" he asked eagerly.

"I really do think I'd like to go inside."

He took a moment to circle that. "Inside?"

"The house she elaborated. "It, um, seems like the, um ... logical place for us to continue with this— conversation. More comfortable, at least."

As uneasy as she had been about entering the stall with him a few minutes ago, he couldn't imagine her wanting to go in the house to discuss things, but who was he to argue? With a shrug, he said, "Suits me, I guess."

Looking none too thrilled at the prJospect, she gestured for him to follow. En route, she said, "Will your horse be all right tied to the wagon? We can water him, if you'd like."

As nervous as she obviously was, her concern for his horse's welfare told him more about her than she could possibly know. "I watered him back in town. He should be fine for a few minutes."

All he wanted was to make amends and get the hell out of there, not that he dared say as much. How to make amends, that was the question. So far, the woman was proving to be as hard to pin down as a politician.

From the looks of the ranch, she and her brother could have used some extra money. Only, if he made an offer like that, how would she feel about taking it? His aim here was to mend fences, not offend her even more.

As Caitlin approached the front porch, Ace found himself hot-footing it along behind her, half-afraid she might trip over something. "Careful," he warned as she gathered her skirts to scale the first step.

At the sound of his voice so close behind her, she jumped. Not wishing to make her feel uncomfortable, he fell back a little.

"I have some freshly baked sugar cookies," she informed him in that same tremulous voice. As she gained the top step, she asked, "Would you, um, mind if we had tea and cookies first?"

First? That struck him as an odd request. As if they couldn't talk and sip tea at the same time? "No, I don't mind."

Following in her wake, Ace felt some of the planks in the steps give with his weight, cementing his suspicion that the place was about to fall down around her ears. He reached to help her with the lock. The knob turned easily, and the door swung open with a ghostly whine. He stepped aside for her to enter. She shivered slightly as she moved over the threshold.

"If you'll wait just a moment, I'll light a lamp," she told him.

Ace nearly offered to do it for her. He was able to see, after all. But something about the way she held her shoulders forestalled him.

Skirts rustling, she moved in a direct line to the hall table, where she groped for the lamp and removed its chimney. He heard the stick matches shivering in their box. Then, with a rasp of sulphur against glass paper, yellow flame leaped and then flickered. Warding off drafts with a cupped palm, she touched the fire to the lamp wick. With a hiss, the kerosene-soaked canvas caught, blazing white, then diminished to a mellow gold. Leaning sideways to avoid the fumes, she quickly replaced the smoke-streaked chimney.

"There," she said, brushing her hands clean. "Isn't that better?"

Ace moved farther inside and pushed the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ace hadn't expected the O'Shannessy house to be quite so shabby. Bare plank floors that hadn't seen a coat of varnish in years. Paint on the walls dingy with age. It was obvious the moment he stepped inside that little coin had been spared for maintenance.

Despite that, he saw evidence aplenty that Caitlin had tried to fix the place up. In front of the door lay a colorful braided rug, the scraps of interwoven material as yet unfaded. Indeed, the cloth in the rug was in far better shape than that in her dress, which was worn at the cuffs and elbows.

"Very pretty," he said, gesturing at the rug, feeling intensely awkward. "Wish I had a few over at my place. The floors are still bare as bones."

She rubbed her palms on her skirt. "The dry goods store had a sale on remnants last year. In the winter when it snows, I go crazy if my hands are idle."

Ace glanced about, noting that most of the wall hangings had been crafted by a feminine hand as well— an oval piece of needlepoint that read "God Bless Our Home," a cluster of dried flowers under glass. Nothing that had cost much money, but pretty, all the same. Beneath the lantern lay a tatted doily that, judging by its yellowness, he guessed her mother might have made.

A wave of sadness swamped Ace. Though he couldn't have explained why, he suspected this barren foyer was a reflection of what Caitlin's life had been like—a girl grabbing for beauty wherever she could find it.

Above the hall table, illuminated by a fan of gold from the lamp, hung a portrait of Conor O'Shannessy and a petite woman Ace guessed was his wife. Ace hung his hat on a crudely fashioned coat tree near the door where Caitlin had draped her shawl. Then, ignoring the fact that she nervously evaded him in a swirl of skirts, he stepped closer to the picture.