Chapter 10
In the days that followed Justice’s angry revelation, Caitlin maintained an uneasy truce with Shane. Her pride was shattered, and she was in no mood to listen to any more of her husband’s explanations or excuses.
Shane had broken his marriage vows to become deeply involved with a common bawd who sold her favors to the highest bidder. He’d accused Caitlin of being unfaithful and giving birth to an illegitimate child, while he’d been the one who’d cheated and lied.
Now he expected her to overlook what he had done with Justice’s mother and go on as if nothing had happened. And as much as Caitlin wanted to save her marriage, she didn’t know if that was possible.
She loved the man he used to be. But maybe love wasn’t enough—maybe she should take Derry and leave Kilronan.
Mary and Justice would be happier if she went away. If Shane was steely polite, the Indian woman and Shane’s adopted son were anything but. Battles raged on every front. Mary had her own way of running the house, and she was not prepared to share her responsibilities or to change her habits.
And Caitlin was just as determined not to back down. So long as she was mistress at Kilronan, she’d manage the household her way. That meant spotless floors, scrubbed walls, and clean children at meals and bedtime.
Caitlin rose at first light every morning and kept busy until the last of the dishes were done, the kitchen floor swept, and dough set to rise for the next morning’s bread.
Since Mary was so deeply entrenched in the kitchen, Caitlin made the front parlor her first project. She found a hammer and painstakingly pried out the nails that held the connecting door between the kitchen and parlor shut.
“Why would anyone build a doorway and then board it up?” she demanded of Shane over supper.
He shrugged.
“Too many door,” Mary grumbled. “One, two, three. Three door in kitchen, too many. Not need waste wood to heat empty room.”
“Well, we don’t need to heat the room now, do we?” Caitlin replied with a forced smile.
“Winter come,” Mary said. “Winter always come. Waste wood, heat, ’nother room. Eat in kitchen. All time, eat in kitchen.” She spread her worn hands expressively. “Good room. Good food. Good heat.”
“It’s not winter now, and we will be taking supper in the parlor room as soon as I finish it,” Caitlin said firmly. “It will be our dining room.”
The following day she inspected the house from top to bottom. Upstairs, in the attic under the eaves, she found a cache of old furniture covered with dusty trade blankets: a dismantled four-poster bed, seven straight-backed chairs, an Irish hunt board, and an old-fashioned dining table crafted of solid walnut.
The front parlor was smaller than the kitchen, but the room boasted a lovely stone hearth, deep window seats, and whitewashed plaster walls. Sunshine streamed through the glass windowpanes onto the pine floor, giving the chamber a warm glow. A second doorway led to the entrance hall.
While Shane ignored her and busied himself with the unending task of caring for his animals and crops, Caitlin attacked the parlor. She coated the walls with fresh whitewash, scrubbed and polished the floorboards, and shined the windows. Then she dragged the dismantled table piece by piece, and the hunt board down two flights of stairs and into the room. These, too, she carefully cleaned and waxed.
The room took longer than Caitlin had thought it would, nearly a week of hard work. But when she pushed the last chair under the table and hung a portrait of her great-grandmother over the hunt board, she was satisfied. Her back ached and she had blisters on both hands, but she didn’t care.
“All done?” Derry asked.
“Not yet,” she murmured. “Almost, but soon.”
A midday thunderstorm had kept both children in the house, and Caitlin had heard them giggling in the kitchen and running up and down the stairs. Then Caitlin heard Justice say something about going to the barn.
“Stay inside, Derry,” Caitlin warned.
The kitchen door slammed shut.
“Justice gone,” Derry said dejectedly.
“He’s a big boy,” Caitlin soothed. “He has chores to do.”
“Berry do chores.”
“Yes, when you’re bigger.”
Derry trailed after Caitlin as she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. The rain was coming down in sheets, hitting the windows in waves.
Caitlin thought of Shane and Gabriel mending fences, and wondered if they’d taken shelter somewhere.
“Justice catched a f ’nake,” Derry said as Caitlin picked her up and set her on a chair.
“A real snake or a make-believe snake?” Caitlin asked absently. One leg of Derry’s pantalettes was hiked up above her knee, the other drooped over her shoe. Her face was smeared with honey, and her hands were black and sooty.
“No. Don’t touch your dress. I’ll wash you as soon as I find something.”
Derry shook her head so hard that her pigtails whirled in the air. “A blue f ’nake.”
“Blue? All right.” Caitlin smiled. “Sit still. I’ll be done in a minute.” She was certain that she’d packed four linen swags in the bottom of her big trunk. Once the delicate drapes had adorned her mother’s bedchamber; now they would do nicely for the dining room.
At home in County Clare, she’d taken the beautiful furniture, family portraits, and silver for granted. They hadn’t been rich, no matter what Shane said, but her parents had lived graciously. Her father had loved books; her mother, music and painting. Maureen had learned to play the piano, and Caitlin the small harp. Caitlin could remember dinner parties and dances and poetry readings that went on until late at night.
Here in the Missouri wilderness there was only endless sky and grass, ancient forests, and rushing streams. Caitlin appreciated the breathtaking beauty of this new land around her, but she also longed for the intellectual richness of her old life.
“It’s a good thing I brought my favorite books with me,” she said to Derry. “I’ve seen nothing in this house but a single tattered Bible.”
“Like f ’nakes. You like f ’nakes, Mama?”
“Not especially.” Caitlin opened the big trunk and dug to the bottom without finding the linen swags. “Now, where can they be? I was certain I saw them last week.”
“Justice like green f nakes.”
“Umm-hm,” Caitlin agreed. “Maybe in the other . . .” Nibbling at her lower lip, she flipped up the lid on the smaller wooden case. “I think I saw—”
Something slithered over Caitlin’s hand. She screamed and leaped back.
Derry clapped her hands and shrieked with excitement. “F’nake, Mama! Green f nake!”
Heart pounding, Caitlin peered into the open trunk. A small garden snake reared up and thrust out its tongue. Two beady black eyes stared into hers.
Derry crowed with laughter.
“Very amusing.” Caitlin pushed the lid shut with the toe of her shoe.
Justice’s funnies were becoming a bad habit. Yesterday Caitlin had sweetened her tea with a spoon of salt from the sugar bowl, and the night before that, at bedtime, she’d slid between clean sheets and discovered a pound of wet sand.
Justice’s stifled giggles came from the hallway.
Caitlin put a finger to her lips for silence and crept to the open door. Then she lunged around the corner and seized him by the ear.
“Let me go!” Justice squirmed and kicked out at her, but she held fast.
“Not yet, young man.”
“You’re hurtin’ me.”
“I believe you left something in my trunk,” Caitlin said. “Get it out!”
Justice’s black eyes narrowed. “I didn’t! If Derry said I did, she’s a lyin’ telltale.”
“Get the snake, Justice,” Caitlin ordered.
“You’re hurtin’ my ear.”
“I’ll hurt you worse than that if you don’t get that snake out of my room.”
Later, after Justice had disposed of the garden snake, Caitlin bathed Derry and tucked her in for her nap. She located the missing curtains in a third trunk and went back downstairs to the dining room.
Caitlin was standing on the window seat, tacking up the last corner of linen swag when she heard the door to the kitchen open behind her.
She turned around, prepared to defend herself against another of Mary’s discouraging remarks. Instead, she saw her husband standing in the doorway, wearing a rain-soaked slicker. In one hand he held his dripping hat; in the other he clasped a bunch of wet daisies.
She didn’t know whether to scold him or laugh. “Shane?”
A faint flush washed over his tanned features. Black Irish, she thought . . . silver-gray eyes and Lucifer’s own pride. But he’d not get around her with a few soggy wildflowers.
Her grandmother had always said that the devil would never come creeping around with cloven hooves and a forked tail. “More like a fallen angel, he’ll look,” the old lady had confided. “Clothed in the body of a brawny young man with silver eyes and a tongue to match.”
Caitlin felt a sudden flash of heat, but whether it was anger or lust she could not tell. She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re dripping water all over the floor.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“I am,” she replied, steadying herself against the windowpane. “Would it have been all right to drip on the floor if I wasn’t here?”
She glanced at her scissors lying on the table. What would he say if she took them and cut his flowers to pieces? It was no more than he deserved—trying to bribe her with daisies after what he’d done.
“Thought you might want these.” Shane dropped the flowers on the table and helped her down from the window seat. “We got caught in the rain.”
“I can see that.”
Shane shrugged off his slicker. The shirt underneath was wet through, clinging to his shoulders and chest like a second skin.
“Shouldn’t you hang that up somewhere to dry?” She pointed to his slicker.
“I thought . . . you planting those roses . . . I . . .” He seemed at a loss for words, and it pleased her to see him uneasy.
He stepped back into the doorway and tossed the slicker onto the kitchen bench. “Gabe and me were mendin’ fence on the southern pasture when the storm rolled in,” he explained as he turned back to her. “There was a whole meadow of these flowers.”
“Thank you.” Her words dropped between them like frozen sleet.
He flashed her a faint smile and ran his fingers through the section of wet hair that threatened to cover his eyes. For an instant she saw a flash of the old Shane, but she hardened her will against his charms.
“You need a haircut,” she murmured woodenly. “I—”
“Maybe you could cut it for me. Cerise used to—” He realized his mistake and bit off his words.
“McKenna want coffee?” Mary shouted. Poking her head through the kitchen doorway, she looked around. Her hair, always neatly braided into a severe bun at the back of her neck, was nearly as wet as Shane’s. But except for a few water spots on the blanket around her shoulders, Mary’s clothing was dry.
Gabriel, obviously in the process of removing his shirt, appeared at Mary’s side. “Pretty fancy, them cloth things over the windows.”
Shane turned and swatted at Gabe with his hat. “Can’t a man have any privacy around here?”
The wrangler’s inscrutable face belied the twinkle in his dark eyes. “Never known you to pick flowers, boss. You get struck by lightning today?”
“I said out! Both of you!” Shane gave Gabriel a shove and slammed the door in their faces.
Caitlin looked down at the daisies. Did Shane believe she could be bribed with a few flowers after what he’d done with that woman?
“I’m sorry,” he said.
For what? Caitlin wondered. For abandoning her in Ireland, for shaming her with Cerise, or for his cold manner toward her since she’d come to Missouri? How could he expect her to forgive and forget so easily when he’d just reminded her again of his illicit relationship with Justice’s mother?
I want you to feel ashamed, she thought. I want you to hurt as much as you’ve hurt me. But I don’t want to drive you away.
“They are pretty,” she said grudgingly. And they were, even wet. The white daisies with yellow centers were so lovely that it was hard to believe they grew wild.
She swallowed, trying to ease the constriction in her throat. Bringing flowers was the oldest trick a straying man had in his pocket. She’d be a fool to allow herself to be swayed so easily.
“You should change your clothes before you take a chill and catch the ague,” she said.
“I s’pose.”
She looked back at him. Damn Cerise to hell, she thought. All those nights that she spent crying into her pillow, missing him . . . To think that she was cutting Shane’s hair, putting her hands on his face, sleeping beside him on cold, rainy nights.
“It’s good,” he said brusquely.
“What’s good?”
“What you’ve done in here. The whitewash and this stuff.” He motioned toward the hunt board. “I should have brought it down for you, but I forgot about it bein’ there. Uncle Jamie’s wife . . . it belonged to her. She died before I came to America, but I guess he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of her things.”
Caitlin moved to the table and fingered the daisies. For all their beauty, they gave off a pungent odor that was not altogether pleasant.
“Oxeye,” Shane said.
Puzzled, she met his gaze.
He waved at the bouquet with his hat, sending a shower of drops onto the tabletop she’d waxed so lovingly. “The flowers. They’re called oxeye daisies.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “I didn’t know.” She wanted to wipe away the water, but her feet felt rooted to the floor.
Somehow Shane always looked bigger to her indoors. His pants and boots were as wet as the rest of him. He’d taken the trouble to shave this morning, and she saw that the cut along his cheek had healed nicely. With his hair slicked back and clean shaven, he looked younger, more approachable.
“I could take you there . . . if you like,” he offered.
“Where?”
He exhaled softly and shifted his weight. “To the meadow. Where the daisies grow. Maybe you’d like to take a ride out there.”
“In the rain?” She knew she should refuse, but then he grinned, and a knot loosened in Caitlin’s chest.
“Tomorrow, maybe. We finished the fence work and—”
“I’d like that,” she blurted out. “But why, Shane? Why offer to take me to see a field of flowers? That’s strange behavior for a man who’s made no secret of the fact that he wants to be rid of his wife.”
He shook his head. “If I wanted to be rid of you, you’d have been on the next steamboat for Saint Louis.”
“Would I? I suppose that’s true.” She took a step toward him. Wind rattled the glass panes. Lightning flashed outside, and the air seemed equally charged inside. She found herself concentrating on the faint pulse at the hollow of his tanned throat.
“Hell, you don’t make it easy on a man.”
“Or you on me,” she whispered.
“You’ve a stare colder than a blue norther,” he said huskily. “I should have told you about Cerise, but I figured you’d take it hard.”
She nodded. “No decent woman wants to think she can be replaced by that kind.” Her anger was fast dissolving, leaving a dull, bottomless ache. “It cheapens our marriage . . . and it cheapens me.”
“It shouldn’t.”
Why can’t you just hold me? she thought. All I want from you is your love . . . and your trust.
Shane’s features took on the hard lines Caitlin had seen so often since she’d come to Missouri.
“Cerise was like most of us,” he said. “Some good parts, and some bad. She had a taste for whiskey, and when she drank, it made her mean. But when she was cold sober, there was a lot to admire in her.”
“I’m sure.” She tried to turn away from him, but he wouldn’t let her. His fingers closed around her upper arms, holding her firmly.
“Don’t go all stiff and proper on me. It took me half a day to come up with the nerve to say this, so you’ve got to listen. Like a festerin’ sore, this has to be cut out and allowed to heal—if you want us to come to terms.”
She nodded, trying desperately to keep from disgracing herself by dissolving in tears.
“You can’t blame me for wantin’ to keep that part of my past in the past,” he continued. “But Cerise was more than just a warm body I could buy for the night. And Justice deserves more than bein’ known as a whore’s son.”
Caitlin’s vision clouded as she looked into his eyes. “I’m trying,” she whispered.
Then, without knowing if it was his doing or hers, she found herself sobbing against his chest. Shane’s arms held her, and he was patting her back and whispering soothing words.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he murmured. “I was lonely, and I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Oh, Shane,” she managed.
“Don’t. It’ll be all right. We’ll find a way to make it all right.”
Then she heard the door hinges squeak and Gabe’s voice, low and dangerous. “What’s goin’ on, McKenna? Did you hit her?”
“No, I didn’t hit her!” Shane yelled. “Now get the hell out of here and leave me talk to my wife.”
“Don’t sound like talkin’ to me. Miss McKenna, you—”
“I’m all right, Gabriel. Really,” Caitlin assured him.
Gabe muttered something in Osage and closed the door.
“I . . . I feel like such a fool,” Caitlin stammered. She pulled away and met his penetrating gaze. “Oh, Shane,” she whispered.
The sour smell of the daisies wafted around her, and the humor of her situation made her smile through her tears.
What was wrong with her? She wanted him to apologize. She wanted him to come to her and try to make things right. And when he did, all she could do was . . .
“Caity? Are you listenin’ to me?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I said, with Mary and Gabe and the kids here, we’re never alone in this house.”
They would be if they were sharing a feather bed, she thought, but didn’t have nerve enough to say it.
“We’ve been apart so long.” He stared down at his felt hat and slowly creased the folds as he searched for the right words. “We’re different people, Caity. We won’t know if we’re suited . . . if we were ever suited.”
“We can’t be if we never talk to each other,” she said.
“We’d have more of a chance if people weren’t always interruptin’.” He looked meaningfully toward the kitchen door. “I know Mary’s been givin’ you a hard time since you got here.”
“I can understand that it would be difficult for her.” Caitlin wiped her eyes and tried to get control of her emotions. They were having a conversation like husband and wife, and she didn’t want it to stop. “I told her this morning that I intended to paint a mural on this wall, and she said my head was on backwards.”
“A mural?”
She nodded. Why had she burst into tears? Now he’d think her weak and soft when she wanted him to see how strong she was.
“You want to paint a picture on the wall?”
“A flowering tree. Maybe a grapevine. We had a mural of a Venetian harbor in the library at home.” Sweet Jerusalem, she was chattering on like Derry.
Shane took a step toward the door.
“Guess I’d best change.”
“I will cut your hair . . . if you want,” she offered. “Later.” The hurt was still there, deep inside her, but her tears had washed away some of the tension between them. For the first time in days, she felt as though she had somewhere to begin.