Authors: Catherine Anderson
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Erotica, #Historical
Time, Caitlin. He just needs time.
Even as Caitlin thought those words, she realized they were becoming a familiar refrain. And tonight, she was so bone weary, she didn't have the patience to be understanding. True, Patrick had been going through a lot of turmoil lately, but did that excuse his complete irresponsibility? Usually, she assured herself the answer was yes. But with every muscle in her body aching from doing the work of two men, she felt less inclined to be charitable.
It wasn't easy, accepting the truth about their father. Drunk or sober, he'd been a worthless human being, without scruples or redeeming graces. And Conor's blood flowed in her veins. It made her feel tainted. She'd spent most of her life trying to live down the fact that he was her sire. As a result, she was honest to a fault and would do almost anything rather than break a promise.
Being the only son, Patrick seemed to be having even more difficulty accepting the truth about their father. To Caitlin's dismay, instead of trying to live it down, Patrick now seemed bent on proving to himself and everyone else that bad blood always won out in the end. Conor O'Shannessy's son, a chip off the old block, one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle, his other knotted into a fist.
In Patrick's mind, his masculinity, his sense of identity, even his pride in bearing the family name, had been destroyed over the last three months. He was angry and resentful. In a way, she even understood his behavior of late, that he was striking out, not only at their new neighbor Ace Keegan, whom he considered to be the source of all his woes, but also at the people in town, by living up to what he believed were their expectations of him.
But enough was enough. She was tired of carrying her brother's share of the load. More importantly, she was beginning to feel truly frightened. With each passing week, Patrick's behavior when he drank was becoming more and more crazy. And, lately, even when he was sober, she sensed a distance between them, as if he were slowly and irrevocably withdrawing from her. Not long ago, he'd been her best friend in the whole world. Now she sometimes felt as if a stranger were living with her— an unlikable stranger who was becoming alarmingly like their late father.
Indescribably weary, she closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how long it might be before the legacy of heartbreak Conor O'Shannessy had left behind would be eradicated from their lives. One would have thought that with their father dead, his power would be destroyed. Instead, he seemed to be grabbing hold of them even from the grave.
Giving the dusty curtains another swat, Caitlin gulped back a sudden rush of tears. And if tears weren't silly, she didn't know what was. As if blubbering would cure her troubles? Instead it would probably give her a headache, and wouldn't that be a fine kettle of fish? It wasn't as if she could laze about all day tomorrow with a cool cloth draped over her eyes.
Well, she had news for her brother. Some people had to work in the morning and needed their rest. If he thought he was going to keep her awake until all hours, he could think again.
Caitlin was about to drop the curtain and return to bed when she saw three men come running out of the barn, one slightly in the lead. Assuming that her brother and two of his comrades comprised the trio, she was startled when the three went down in a thrashing tangle of arms, legs, and flying fists. Eerily illuminated by the backdrop of lantern light, dust billowed around the combatants in a golden cloud. Her brother Patrick's red hair shone like a torch where he lay at the bottom of the pile.
Caitlin whirled from the window. Keegan! The name tore through her mind like a ricochetting bullet. Who else would Patrick be fighting in the middle of the night? Since his arrival in No Name three months ago, the man had become the focus of all Patrick's anger.
She knotted her hands into throbbing fists. That brother of hers! How many times had she told him to leave Ace Keegan alone? So far, she'd managed to avoid making Keegan's acquaintance herself, but she'd heard plenty of stories about him, all bad. A notorious gun-slinger who'd made a fortune at the gaming tables in San Francisco, he was undeniably dangerous, and ever since his return to the area, her brother had been doing his level best to goad him into a fight. Now it looked as if Keegan had finally decided to give him one.
Never had Caitlin been so furious with her brother. So furious, in fact, she was tempted to let Keegan beat the stuffing out of him. It was certainly no more than Patrick deserved, and it might be just what he needed.
But no. Even as the thought slipped into her mind, she was giving the sash of her wrapper a tug and groping her way across the room to the door. Right or wrong, Patrick was her brother. Despite his outrageous behavior recently, he was basically a good person and had always been loving and supportive. She couldn't just stand here while a bunch of
Barbary Coast
ruffians ganged up on him.
The windowless hallway outside her bedroom was as black as stove soot. Like a swimmer pulling herself through water, she groped her way along the wall toward her father's study. The rank smell of soured whiskey blasted her in the face as she stepped into the room.
Just like her bad memories, the scent never seemed to fade. Though she knew it was her imagination, the very air in the study seemed several degrees colder than in the rest of the house, making her skin prickle and her palms go icy. Very little light seeped through the damask curtains. Patting the air to avoid tripping over furniture, Caitlin hurried to the gun cabinet. From outside, she heard the faint sound of men's angry voices.
Fingers gone clumsy with urgency, she fumbled for the cabinet door latch, turned the key, and located her '73
Winchester
by touch. The instant her hand curled over the gunmetal, she felt better. If Ace Keegan had come looking for trouble, she would give him more than he had bargained for, fifteen .44-caliber lead bullets, each backed by a forty-grain black powder charge.
Rifle in hand, Caitlin rushed through the dark house. At the front door, she hesitated. There were several men out there. No doubt, they were all armed. A lone woman who went up against such odds had to be crazy.
She touched a hand to her stomach and hauled in a bracing breath. Patrick was out there, and he needed help. What kind of sister would she be if she cowered inside the house? In the past, her brother had put his own safety on the line for her more than once. She could do no less for him.
The hinges creaked eerily as she drew open the heavy oak door. At the sound, the crickets outside stopped singing, the cessation so abrupt and complete that even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Caitlin slipped soundlessly onto the porch. The coolness of the
The bunkhouse lay some two hundred yards north of the barn. Caitlin allowed herself one brief glance in that direction. She had kept only two men on the payroll after her father's accident, both elderly fellows who'd worked for the family for years and had been willing to stay on for nominal wages. As tempting as it was to wake them, she knew they would probably be more hindrance than help in a fracas. She didn't want either of them to get hurt.
Gathering her courage, she jumped off the porch and raced across the small patch of lawn, never breaking stride. Out the gate. Across the service yard. Thistles jabbed the soles of her bare feet, but she scarcely felt the sting.
At the barn, she whirled and pressed her back against the rough siding. A sudden gust of wind, carrying scents of alfalfa and freshly mowed grass hay, molded the lightweight cotton of her nightclothes to her body. Gulping for breath, her heart pounding, she got a handier grip on the
Winchester
, depressed the combined lever and trigger guard, and forced the hammer to full cock. The muted click of the well-oiled mechanism made her wince.
Bracing the rifle butt against her hip she curled a finger over the trigger and leaped through the open doorway. "What's going on in here?"
To her dismay, Hank Simmons, one of their hired hands, stood just inside the door. The barrel of her rifle was aimed smack dab at his spine.
"Hank! Get out of my way!"
Hank didn't so much as twitch. With a sickening lurch of her stomach, Caitlin remembered the wiry old cow-poke was deaf as a post. Why he was just standing there, she couldn't guess. He had his rifle—she could see the butt extending beyond his right hip—but as near as she could tell, he'd made no attempt to use it.
Wielding her
Winchester
like a canoe paddle, she forced her way past him. Hank gave a startled gasp and fell back against the wall. Not sparing him a glance, Caitlin halted a few feet shy of the light, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. Blinking frantically to clear her vision, she repeated her question.
"What's going on in here, I said? Patrick, are you all right?"
Silence. An awful, terrible silence. Not even a horse nickered in response. As her vision sharpened, she understood why. Surrounded by six men and several milling horses, Patrick sat on his pinto at the center of the barn, his hands tied behind his back, his neck encircled by a rope already looped over the massive rafter above him. Only a sharp slap on the gelding's rump stood between him and a broken neck.
Like little boys caught perpetrating mischief, the men around Patrick stood motionless, their expressions shamefaced. Only, of course, they weren't little boys, and they weren't up to harmless mischief.
For a fleeting instant, Caitlin wondered which of them was Keegan. Then the horror of it all began to sink in. A gunshot might spook Patrick's horse, a fact that rendered her trusty
Winchester
absolutely useless. Little wonder Hank stood frozen in place behind her, doing nothing. One wrong move from either of them, and her brother was a dead man.
"Oh, God," she said faintly.
She jerked her gaze up to her brother's face. Tears streaked his pale cheeks. His deep red hair, the color so like her own, stood out from his head in a wind-tossed tangle, and his frightened blue eyes looked as big as supper plates. The white shirt he wore was ripped at the shoulder—a shirt she had made for him last winter when the snow was deep. Her brother, her baby brother.
"Oh, Patrick, what have you done?" she asked shakily. Then, to the men standing around him, "Why? What on earth did he do? Are you mad?"
Instead of answering her, the men glanced uneasily into the shadows off to her right. It took Caitlin a moment to realize the significance of that. Startled, she swung around and stared into the unlit area under the stairway that led up to the loft. For a moment, she could see nothing. Then she caught a flash of silver. Keegan. She'd heard stories about the fancy six-shooter he wore, nickel plated, with a pearl handle. Silver death, one man in town had called it, and given the number of men Keegan was rumored to have killed, she guessed the comparison wasn't far wrong.
Like an image coming to life under the deft strokes of an artist's charcoal, the man standing in the darkness began to take shape. Though he remained indistinct, she could see him well enough to tell he was dressed all in black and had skin bronzed by the sun to a deep umber. Darkness blending with darkness. Except for his eyes. Like the gun on his hip, they reflected the light as he gave her a slow, almost insolent appraisal.
For an awful moment, Caitlin felt exposed. Then she remembered that she, too, stood in the shadows. Only two lanterns illuminated the barn, both suspended from rafter hooks, one on either side of the feed passage. Keegan might be able to see the white of her gown and wrapper, the darkness of her red hair against the cloth, and the oval of her face, but otherwise very little.
As though to rectify that, he came slowly toward her, his gait lazy and loose-jointed, the heel of one boot scuffing ominously over the packed dirt, the creak of holster leather marking his uneven stride. Her every instinct urged her to run. But for Patrick's sake, she stood her ground.
The muscles along her spine ached with the effort to hold the heavy rifle level at her waist. Not that she would dare use it.
Say something! Do something! her brain commanded her. Instead, she just stared at him, helpless and terrified in a way she'd sworn no man would ever make her feel again.
In some distant part of her mind, she heard Patrick sobbing softly. But she couldn't take her gaze off Keegan. He had obviously positioned himself under the stairs so he might observe the hanging and give orders while his men did the dirty work. The miserable coward. His lack of courage was small comfort, though. Cowards were at their most dangerous when they had the upper hand.
Coming to a stop in the flickering play of lantern light, Keegan looked satanic and deadly dressed all in black, the nickel-plated revolver flashing in the low-slung holster at his hip. The impression was undoubtedly intentional, the better to intimidate his opponents when he went up against them in a gunfight. Caitlin wondered how many men he'd actually killed with that fancy gun and prayed gossip had painted him meaner than he actually was.