Chapter 5
The instant her mouth pressed against Shane’s, Caitlin stepped off a cliff into thin air. Her senses reeled as his scent filled her head and the taste of his mouth brought back a rush of memories.
His arms tightened around her, clasping her to his broad chest. Shamelessly she clung to him, molding the curves of her body to his, tilting her head so that her lips fitted his perfectly.
She had intended the kiss to be a tender greeting, but she hadn’t anticipated the intensity of his response . . . or her own.
A flash of heat swept over her as Shane parted her lips with his tongue and thrust deep inside her mouth. She shut her eyes and savored the feel of him, reveling in the sensual joy of the embrace. For long seconds the searing kiss deepened, as her blood pounded in her ears and her thoughts tumbled, giddy with wild, sweet sensations. And when at last he pushed her away, she was stunned and gasping for breath.
Shane had wooed and courted her. He’d wed her with book and ring, and they’d consummated their union on a bed of wild heather in a wooded glade. Shane McKenna had taken her maidenhood. He’d made her a woman, but he’d never before kissed her like this.
Shane shook his head and stepped away from her. “I missed you more than I thought, Caity,” he murmured hoarsely.
Without his strength to support her, she swayed, nearly losing her balance. She felt drunken, dazed. She blinked and tried to think of something to say that would hide her confusion. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and looked into his eyes.
“Caity . . .” Shane’s mouth—the mouth that she had known so intimately only seconds ago—tightened.
Kiss me like that again! she wanted to cry.
“I want you, Caity.”
Trembling, she waited.
“I want you bad. But this is happening too soon between us. It will only complicate things if I bed you now.”
Shane’s gut wrenched as he watched a deep flush creep up Caitlin’s throat and lightly freckled face. Her eyes dilated, and her lower lip quivered.
An oath rolled off his tongue as he realized just how badly he’d hurt her. And himself . . . It took every ounce of his will to keep from crushing her against him and devouring her trembling, honeyed mouth.
His hands ached to stroke the lush curves of her body. He wanted to strip away her layers of silk, undo the ribbons and lace, peel the stockings from her long, shapely legs, and bury his face in her firm breasts.
He remembered Caitlin’s nipples, ripe buds of rosy pink against her white breasts. He’d seen her nipples only once, in the misty dawn after their wedding night, but they were not a sight a hot-blooded man was likely to forget. He’d been told that some women’s breasts changed after they’d given birth to a child; he wondered if her nipples had darkened in color.
She turned her face away from him, and in that second, he would have given a year of his life to undo those words.
Why had he rejected her? She’d come willingly into his arms, as hot for him as he was for her. He ached, his sex pressed tightly against his trousers. She was his lawful wife, and he was a fool to turn away what was so clearly offered—what was his by right.
“I only meant a kiss,” she stammered. “No more than that. A kiss between husband and wife.”
Lies. Lies came easily to a woman’s lips. Still, he’d shamed her, and he could hardly blame Caity for trying to salvage her pride.
A few soft words and he might still have her. But he knew the price might be more than he was willing to pay. He’d let one woman lead him by his jack, and it had nearly earned him a noose around his neck. He’d not make the same mistake with Caity.
“Best we wait,” he said. “Don’t think I’m not tempted, but if we sleep in the same bed, you might quicken with child. You see that, don’t you?”
“No need to apologize.” Her voice was thick with shame. “As you say, it would only complicate things between us.” She raised her stubborn chin and stared him squarely in the eye, and he pretended not to see the tears glistening there.
“It was a fine greeting, though,” he said lightly. “As fine a one as I’ve ever had.”
She shook her head. “My mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, girl—”
“I’m not a girl,” she protested. “If you can’t see that, then there’s no chance for us at all.”
Her light brown eyes had always made him think of ginger. Ginger eyes and ginger spirit. He’d thought that the first time he’d seen her . . . a lifetime ago, when they’d both been hardly more than children.
She had a temper, but she didn’t spit and screech like so many females. Caity’s anger scorched with a blue flame as her whiskey voice deepened and took on the familiar cadence of County Clare.
“What am I, Shane? Your wife or your guest?”
“You know the answer.”
“Very well. If I am your wife, then I expect to have responsibilities. You told me that I was not to meddle in things I know nothing of. Where am I to meddle? Am I to be in charge of the children? The house?”
He frowned, covering his own awkwardness with disinterest. “Do what you like inside these walls, so long as you don’t interfere with Justice’s chores. You’ll not make a dandy of him.”
“Fair chance of that.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what of Mary Red Jacket? She plainly dislikes me.” Caity’s hands rested on her hips in a gesture of defiance he remembered all too well.
“Mary’s rough, but she works hard. She’s alone in the world without kin or home.”
“Do I look like the sort to throw a poor woman onto the road?” She took a slow breath, and he could see her trembling with anger. “Am I to have the say of the house?” she demanded. “You give your word to uphold my authority?”
“Within reason.”
“None of your shilly-shallying, Shane McKenna. If you’ll not set the example and give me the respect due mistress of this house, I’m lost before I start.”
“Have it your way, woman. But give me peace in my own home. And you must do with what we have. Don’t think I can hand out silver as though it grows on trees.”
“Fair chance of that, is there? A tightfisted man you’ve become. And you with enough land to keep the town of Crusheen from hard times.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “I’m a tightfisted man, and a hard one. Keep that in mind, and we’ll get on.” He stalked past her to the head of the stairs. “Good night to you, Madame.”
“You didn’t tell me who you suspect was shooting at you,” she called after him.
He ignored her last remark.
His rifle leaned against the wall at the bottom of the steps. He knew Caity’s little girl hadn’t the strength to cock the hammer or to fire the weapon, but he’d have to drive pegs over the door to hang it high out of her reach. And Derry would have to learn the rules of living on the frontier. There’d never been a young child at Kilronan, and he supposed a lot of habits would need changing to keep the wee colleen from harm.
Picking up the gun, he inspected it closely, then carried it with him into the kitchen.
Mary crouched by the hearth, pipe in her mouth, banking the fire for the night. Gabe stood by the table, a mug of coffee cradled between his hands.
“Where’s Justice?” Shane asked.
Mary motioned to a pallet in the far corner. The boy, still fully dressed and feigning sleep, lay sprawled among the covers. His eyes were tightly squeezed together.
“I know you’re awake,” Shane said. “Upstairs, in your own bed.”
The child’s dark eyes snapped open. “I was gonna stand guard, Shane. The shooter might come back and steal our horses.”
“I’ll do what watchin’ needs done tonight,” Shane replied.
Gabe met his gaze. “Want my help?”
Shane shook his head. “You get some sleep. I need you clearheaded for tomorrow.”
Mary handed Shane a cup of coffee, black as homemade sin and steaming hot. He tucked the rifle into the crook of his arm and carried the coffee with him out to the barn.
Coffee was the one luxury he allowed them, and Mary’s tin chest was nearly bare. He’d been ashamed to tell Caity how broke he was. Some men traded at the store at Kane’s Crossroads on tick, but not him. He’d seen his own father lose what little they had to debt, and Uncle Jamie had left Kilronan buried in due notes to the bank and supply houses.
By sweat and luck he’d cleared most of what was owed, but he’d have no ready coin until he sold more stock. He would have met Caity at the steamboat landing on time if he hadn’t been delayed at Hendrick’s farm. He and Justice had stopped to deliver a mule and spent most of the afternoon helping Matt Hendrick pull a cow out of a section of quicksand in the river.
Shane had received no ready money from that transaction, but he had paid off what was still due from one of his uncle’s old gambling wagers. By the time he bought gunpowder, flour, and lamp oil, there wasn’t two bits left of his ready cash.
Caity had called him a tightfisted man. He supposed that was true enough, but if he’d been softer, Kilronan would have been lost before this. It wasn’t in him to make excuses to a woman. Caity had come from quality, and she’d never understand how much the price of a hotel room meant to a stockman.
He didn’t take a lantern to the barn. He knew every inch of the way by heart. Murmuring softly to the horses to settle them, Shane climbed up into the loft. There he swung open a door and sat back against a pile of hay with his rifle across his lap.
He sipped slowly at the coffee, trying not to remember how Caity felt in his arms. He could still smell the faint heather in her hair. Fat Rose’s girls bathed in scent. He reckoned you could catch wind of Rose’s house a mile downriver. Caity didn’t smell like that; she was wholesome and clean, and soft as a new-hatched duckling.
“So why did you come here?” he murmured aloud. “Why this time and not before?” Was it the shame of bearing a child out of wedlock? Or was it possible that she still cared for him?
He could care for her a hell of a lot, if he let himself. His feelings for Caity ran deep and wide. He’d shut them off and built a dam of icy bitterness in his head to stop the hurting. It wouldn’t take much to melt that ice and bring the dam crashing down.
“I could love you again, Caity, girl,” he whispered. “I could take you and another man’s babe as my own, if only I could trust you.”
“Ouch! Let go! You’re killin’ me!” Justice kicked and squirmed, but Caitlin held him firmly by the back of the neck and scrubbed his face until it shone.
“You’re to wash your face and hands before coming to the table,” she insisted. “And brush your teeth and comb your hair.”
“Comb your teeth!” Derry echoed, then burst into a merry giggle.
It was quarter after seven by the watch Caitlin had hung around her neck. She’d been up since five, and she’d attacked the kitchen dirt between patting up round loafs of soda bread and preparing a pot of tea and a large duck-egg omelet.
Caitlin had pushed the leg-of-mutton sleeves of her russet morning gown above her elbows and tied an apron around her waist to protect the delicate cotton percale. She’d braided her hair and coiled the heavy mass into a bun, crowning it with a tiny lace cap, once as white as sea foam but now faded to old ivory. Shane had ridiculed her stylish clothing, but this was the plainest dress she owned. It had been more than five years since she’d ordered a new gown, and her fashions—though made of good cloth and lace—were sadly out of date.
Caitlin released her hold on Justice, and he slid sullenly onto the back bench on the far side of the trestle table. She’d set it with a linen table cover, her mother’s blue and white delftware plates, and silver spoons and forks. She’d been unable to find her knives. Either they were in her other trunks back in town or someone had stolen them.
She went back to the hearth and slid the hot loaves of bread onto a plate. She’d found no butter or jam in the kitchen larder, only a tin of syrup. Quickly she sliced the bread and served the children generous sections of omelet. “Will you have tea with your breakfast, Justice?” she asked him.
He jabbed at the eggs with a fork and didn’t answer.
“Milk!” Derry proclaimed, grinning until two dimples popped out on her rosy cheeks. Caitlin had dressed her in a light wool dress of red tartan with red lace-trimmed pantalettes. Derry’s black hair was neatly braided and tied with tartan bows to match the dress. “I want milk!” she clamored, scratching at her button nose. “Milk!”
“No milky,” Mary said. She sat, arms folded over her chest, in the rocking chair. Her coppery face wrinkled in disapproval as she chewed at the stem of the unlit pipe. “Justice like coffee. Tea blaah. Tea for sick boy.”
“This is very good tea, Mary. I brought it with me from Ireland.”
“McKenna no drinky tea. Drink coffee. No likey eggs mix up like pudding.”
“Berry drinky tea,” the toddler exclaimed. “Good.” She pursed her rosebud mouth and nodded firmly.
“Only a small cup, precious,” Caitlin said, kissing the crown of Derry’s head. She did indulge the child with tea, laced liberally with milk. At home, she’d seen Maureen give the babe tea to dull her hunger. Here in America, with food abundant, tea would be a much rationed treat for Derry and not an everyday drink.
“I don’t like this stuff,” Justice said, dropping a forkful of egg on his plate. “This bread tastes funny.”
“Wait for grace to be said, Justice,” Caitlin admonished gently. “Didn’t Shane . . . your father . . . teach you to—”
“I haven’t taught myself much in the way of prayers,” Shane said.
Caitlin turned to see him filling the doorway, and her heartbeat quickened. “Shane. I was just going to call you for breakfast.”
“Coffee?” Mary asked.
“Sure.” He splashed water on his face.
“I’ve made a pot of tea,” Caitlin said. “I thought you—”
“Coffee.” Mary pushed a dented tin cup into his hand. “Coffee good,” she said. “Tea ba-ad.”
“Not ba-ad,” Derry said. “Good tea!”
Caitlin took her seat at the end of the table. “When you’re ready, Shane. Mary, will you join us?”
The Indian woman shook her head. “No eat egg pudding. Fried egg. Coffee.”
“Is Gabriel coming in for breakfast?” Caitlin asked. She’d wanted this first morning together to be special. She even wished she’d had the time to pick wildflowers for the table.
Shane sat down, and Caitlin murmured a simple blessing. Derry began to eat heartily. Justice played with his slice of bread while Shane sipped at his coffee.
“Did you see anyone in the night?” Caitlin asked. “Are you going to report yesterday’s shooting to the local constable?”
“No to both questions,” Shane answered. He took a slice of her soda bread and carefully spread syrup on it. She waited while he took a bite.
“Did I put in too much salt?” she asked anxiously.
“No, it’s good,” he replied. “Very good. Brings back a lot of memories.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“You brought all this stuff with you?” He indicated the table settings and the linen.
“Yes, I did.”
“No wonder your trunks were so heavy.”
Justice glanced at her and flashed a taunting hint of a smile. Standing up, he pushed back from the table. His hand caught the edge of the barely tasted plate of breakfast and knocked it to the floor.
“Oh!” Caitlin flinched at the sound of breaking delftware.
“Sorry,” the boy called as he fled toward the door. Mary shoved a piece of cold fry bread into his hand, and he vanished outside.
Barely containing her anger, Caitlin knelt to pick up the broken sections of the plate. The original set, made in Dublin as part of her grandmother’s wedding dowry, had consisted of twelve place settings. The beautiful delftware had survived two generations without harm and come to Caitlin on her mother’s death. Since then, two of the precious plates had been cracked on the journey from Ireland, and the deliberate breaking of this one meant that there were only nine left.
“It was an accident, Caity,” Shane said. “He didn’t mean it.”
“He meant to do it, all right,” she replied.
“You should have kept it packed away for good use only. A farm kitchen’s no place for such—”
“It’s our kitchen, Shane!” she cried passionately. “Our kitchen. Why shouldn’t the children eat off nice plates? They shouldn’t be brought up like ignorant wild things.”
“You think I bring my son up like an animal?”
Caitlin’s throat constricted. “You’re not being fair.”
“Me? Or is it you, to cast blame on a boy for breaking a dish?” He pushed back his own plate. He’d taken no more than a few bites of the omelet.
“I’m trying, Shane,” she said. “Can’t you see that I’m trying?”
“Try a little harder.” He raised his cup and Mary refilled it with coffee.
Caitlin stared down at her own breakfast. She’d been ravenous, but now she couldn’t eat a bite. They were fighting again, and that was the last thing she wanted. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this delft was my grandmother’s. The set means so much to—”
“You put too much store in things,” he said tersely. “Go easy with your changes. We’re used to doing things our way here on Kilronan.”
“I’m sure you are.” But would there ever be a place there for her?
Shane took another sip of his coffee.
Caitlin glanced at the spot where Derry had been sitting, but it was empty. “Derry?” Caitlin looked under the table to see if the child was hiding there. “Where did she get to?” she asked Shane.
Mary pointed toward the open door. “She follow boy.”
Caitlin went to the step. “Derry? Where are you?”
Shane came to the door. “Look in the backyard,” he said. “She’s probably after that duck again.”
“Fleurblanche,” Mary put in. “Mary’s duck. You no let baby chase duck.”
Caitlin walked around behind the house and called the little girl’s name again.
“Still haven’t found her?” Shane asked. He put his hat on his head and pulled it down to shade his eyes. “I’ll check the barnyard. Justice!” he shouted. “Have you seen Derry anywhere?”
Caitlin walked faster. How could the child have vanished into thin air? “Derry?” Caitlin rounded the corner of the house. Near the smaller stable, two hens scratched in the dirt. A horse stood with its head resting on the top rail of a fence. Nothing else moved but the clouds overhead. “Derry!”
Shane appeared at the entrance to the barn. He shook his head. “Not in here. Neither of them.”
Mary came out the front door and hurried toward the far pound. “Fleurblanche have nest in Goliath’s pen,” she said.
Caitlin followed her. “I don’t see why the duck—” Suddenly Derry wailed, and instantly her cry of fear was muffled by the bellow of an angry bull.
“Derry!” Caitlin cried. Fear washed through her as she broke into a run.
Shane caught hold of her arm at the edge of the six-foot-high stockade fence, but she threw herself against the wall and peered through the space between two logs. On the far side of the enclosed compound Caitlin saw a lean-to stable open on one side. The only gate to the enclosure was a stout wooden door with a foot-high gap beneath it, adjoining the shed.
In the left corner of the log structure, half hidden in the straw, a tearful Derry crouched clutching at the white duck. Between the child and the fence stood a massive roan-and-white bull with huge curving horns.
Caitlin stared in terror as the beast shook himself from snout to tail and pawed the earth with one black-tipped hoof. The bull’s hindquarters were turned toward them, his bulging, black eyes focused on the tiny girl in red.
Caitlin dug her nails into the rough logs until two snapped off at the quick. But she didn’t feel the pain, and she didn’t need Shane’s urgent “Shhh!” to be still. Instinct told her that any sudden sound might spook the bull to gore Derry with those terrible horns or to trample her to death.
How tiny Derry looked. How helpless. Caitlin wanted to close her eyes and shut out the horror, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
An odd buzzing filled her brain and seconds lengthened to eternity as she watched Shane curl lean fingers around the top of an upright post. His frame tensed, and Caitlin realized that he meant to scale the fence rather than take the precious time to run around to the gate.
“No!” Mary’s warning came from a few yards away. “Look!” She pointed to the bull.
Goliath snorted. His white-rimmed eyes rolled in his great head, and the shiny black skin on his nose wrinkled. Slowly he swung his heavy head to look away from Derry.
The duck squawked and gave one flap of his wings as he broke free of the toddler’s arms and half flew, half ran across the high-walled pound.
The bull ignored the duck. He pawed the ground again, sending up puffs of dust, and made a short feint toward the shed.
“Wait!” Mary commanded.
Wait for what? Caitlin screamed silently. Wait for the baby to be killed before our eyes?
Derry wept hysterically, deep sobs that racked her small body, and shook a minute fist at the bull. “No!” she cried. “No!” Thrashing in the tangled straw, the child finally managed to rise to her feet. Caitlin’s heart broke as Derry tried to run, fell again, and cried out for her. “Ma-ma!”
Caitlin felt the hot Missouri sun on her face and smelled the acrid scent of urine. The red of the bull’s hide and the dusty gray of the earth blurred before her eyes. Her mouth tasted of metal and dust. “Derry,” she whispered. “No, don’t run. For the love of God, don’t move.”
“I’m going after her,” Shane said. He jammed the toe of his boot in a crack in the fence, but in the split second before he leaped, a stone struck the bull’s nose.
“Hey! Hey!” Justice shouted. “Bull turd! Weeny pizzle!” Another rock flew through the air.
Goliath threw up his head and bellowed in rage. Behind him, between the animal and the open shed, Caitlin saw Justice leaping up and down and heaving stones for all he was worth.
“Justice!” Shane yelled. “Get the hell out of there!”
“Na-na-na-na-na!” the boy taunted, and hurled another stone.
Shane launched himself over the fence as the bull wheeled and charged toward Justice.