Two Brothers (12 page)

“In that getup? The roof would probably cave in.”

“Well, then, I’ll just sit out here, on one of the veranda benches. Maybe they won’t notice.”

Shay took in the dress. “They’ll notice,” he said. Then he tightened his grip on her hand and started off down the street, pulling her along behind him. He’d never asked anything of either of his sisters, since the day he’d left his father’s house, and he wouldn’t have done so now, if the situation weren’t desperate.

“What are you doing?” Aislinn hissed, five minutes later, when he opened the front gate of the big white house at the far end of Main Street and dragged her through it. Up until then, she’d evidently been too busy keeping up with him to ask questions.

He looked up at the two-story structure, and thought with nostalgia of his old room under the slant of the roof. “Getting you a place to sleep,” he said. Then, swallowing his pride, he headed straight for the front door. With Cornelia, you had to be direct, even blunt. Diplomacy and pretty manners would get you nowhere.

“Shay—who—what—?”

He closed his free hand into a fist and pounded on the heavy leaded glass in the front door with such force that the whole thing rattled on its sturdy hinges. “Cornelia!”
he yelled. “Get down here, or tomorrow morning I’ll stand in front of the general store and read out the contents of your father’s will!”

A light appeared at the top of the stairs; he saw its wavering reflection as someone hurried down to the door.

“Shamus,” Cornelia cried from the other side, “leave my property this instant or—or—”

“Or what, Cornelia? You’ll turn me over to the law?”

The lock clattered, then the hinges squealed loudly as the door swung open. There was Cornelia, in a nightgown and wrapper, with her resplendent hair tied up in rags and her face slathered in cream. She looked mad enough to bite through a horseshoe and spit the splinters. “What do you want?” she demanded, in a furious whisper. She saw Aislinn in the next instant, dressed like a soiled dove, and moved to slam the door, but by then Shay had already put his foot in the way.

He grinned endearingly. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said, “since you were so kind as to ask. My friend here needs a place to sleep and a decent dress to put on in the morning.”

Cornelia’s glance moved over Aislinn like acid, fit to raise blisters. Shay was still holding tight to her hand, otherwise she would have bolted for sure.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” Cornelia said. It wasn’t clear who she was addressing.

“Now, that isn’t very Christian,” Shay observed. He didn’t move his foot, and though Aislinn was now pulling frantically to get away, he wouldn’t let go.

“She can stay,” Dorrie put in, from behind Cornelia’s rigid back. “Step aside, Cornie, and let the poor girl pass.”

“Why should I?” Cornelia snapped.

Dorrie elbowed her aside and smiled fondly up at Shay, then lifted the lantern she carried for a better look at Aislinn. “Because I know what Papa’s will says,” she answered, without sparing her sister so much as a glance.
She was apparently enchanted by Aislinn’s borrowed dress. “My, my,” she said. “Tell me, dear—do you sing? We have a need for sopranos in the church choir.” All the while she was talking, Dorrie was pulling Aislinn over the threshold, into the house. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“Not unless you’ve been bending your elbow down at the Yellow Garter Saloon,” Cornelia said, without charity, but she was standing back, out of the way.

Aislinn’s backbone straightened visibly, and her eyes flashed with ferocious pride as she looked at Cornelia. “I am—was—a waitress in the hotel dining room. Until tonight.”

Shay felt a stab of shame, standing there in the entryway of the house he had always thought of as home, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault that Aislinn had felt compelled to give up her place at the restaurant. Not exactly, anyway.

“What about you, Shamus?” Dorrie asked hopefully, smiling up at him. “Will you spend the night, too?”

Cornelia made a horrified sound, but she kept her distance.

“I’ve got prisoners to look after,” he said, “but I’m grateful for the invitation.” He glanced at Cornelia, hat in hand. “I trust my friend will be treated kindly under this roof?”

“Humph,” Cornelia said, candle in hand, and turned away to stomp up the stairs.

Dorrie looked about ten years old in her long night-gown, bare feet and braids. “Don’t you worry, Shamus. I’ll look after—after—?”

“Aislinn,” said the guest, offering a grubby hand. “Aislinn Lethaby, of Livingston, Maine.”

Shay might have laughed at the warm formality of her introduction if he hadn’t realized that it was a desperate attempt to hold on to the last tattered shreds of her
dignity. “Come by the office in the morning, Aislinn, and we’ll work out what to do. Maybe if I speak to Eugenie—”

She whirled on him, her tired eyes full of fire. “Don’t you
dare
interfere, Shay McQuillan. I’ve no right to expect my job back, after all that happened tonight. I’ll just have to make my own way.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” he asked, leaning in close. His temper was coming to a simmer.

Dorrie stepped between them. “Now, now,” she trilled, “it’s very late and we’re all feeling a bit fractious!” She gave Shay a good-natured shove in the direction of the door. “Good night, Shamus.”

Before he knew it, he was out on the porch, with the door shut in his face and the lock engaged. He stood there for a moment, dealing with things that had nothing whatsoever to do with Aislinn and the fix she’d gotten herself into, then turned on his heel and walked away into the night.

Chapter 6

T
HE ROOM AISLINN WAS GIVEN
was under the eaves of the house, with a slanted ceiling and sparse furnishings composed of a spool bed covered with a faded quilt, a plain bureau topped by a ripply mirror and a washstand holding a bowl and pitcher of dented white enamel, rimmed in red. There was a lamp on the bureau, which Dorrie lit, and an old rag rug lay on the floor beside the bed.

“Now, just you just never mind Cornie,” Dorrie prattled, having set her lantern on the bureau top beside Aislinn’s. She was rummaging through the middle drawer as she spoke, and soon produced a man’s blue chambray shirt. “You can wear this for a nightgown.”

Aislinn accepted the shirt and caught Shay’s singular scent from it, along with those of laundry soap, fresh air, and the orderly passage of time, all without raising the garment to her face. She looked around again, her heart beating a little faster than before. This room had been Shay’s, once upon a time. She tried to imagine what sort of child he must have been, but the man he had become filled her mind and overshadowed any idea of the boy.

Dorrie turned to regard her kindly, taking up her lamp again. “Sleep well, missy,” she said. “Things will look
better in the morning. They always do, you know. My mother used to say that.”

Aislinn merely nodded, and when Dorrie had gone, closing the door behind her, she tossed a sorrowful look toward the washstand. Water was too much to hope for, as was soap, and she longed to perform her normal ablutions. It was not to be, however, so she put the latch hook in place, fearing a vengeful visit from the inhospitable Cornelia during the remains of the night, and stripped off the dress. Wrapping herself in Shay’s shirt, she found that she was comforted, and the bed, though long unused, looked like a definite improvement over the cot at the jail.

She blew out the lamp, then turned back the coverlet and top sheet to crawl in. Expecting sleep to elude her, she lay there, once again attempting to get a sense of Shay in this place—the youth he had been, the reasons for his obvious estrangement from his eldest sister. Something about a will, she recalled, turning onto her side.

The mattress was firm, but gloriously comfortable, and the sheets, though worn, were starched and smooth. Aislinn changed positions again, landing on her back this time, and the instant she did so, a visceral memory of Shay’s kiss swept through her like a brush fire devouring dry grass. She squeezed her eyes shut and a small, involuntary whimper of frustration escaped her.

She rolled onto her other side, but that changed nothing, of course. She was still possessed of that same sweet, poignant misery that made her exult in her womanhood and, at one and the same moment, wish devoutly that she had never been born. In just this state of confusion and clarity, affliction and bliss, Aislinn gave herself up to the healing mercies of sleep.

She awakened to a stream of sunlight pouring through the single window and the sound of raised voices downstairs. That she was the topic of sisterly discussion she had no doubt, and she pulled the covers over her head,
longing for a home and a life of her own, a place where she belonged and would always be welcome.

Presently, the disagreement subsided to the clanking of stove lids and the slam of a door. Aislinn was trying to persuade herself to climb out of bed and face the world when she heard someone in the corridor outside her room.

“Aislinn?” The voice, blessedly, was Dorrie’s. “Do let me in, dear. I’ve brought you some hot water and towels. A nice cake of lavender soap, too. While you’re having a wash, I’ll find you something proper to wear.”

Grateful beyond measure for the woman’s kindness, not to mention her generosity, Aislinn crossed the room and admitted Dorrie with a flimsy smile. The ruffled dress she’d borrowed from Liza Sue with such fateful consequences lay in an innocent if tawdry heap on the floor.

“Good morning!” Dorrie sang, sweeping past with a steaming bucket of water, a fragrant bar of pale purple soap and a towel. “Here you are, then,” she said, filling the washstand pitcher and then setting the bucket, which was still half full, near at hand. “Did you rest well?”

Aislinn nodded. “Yes, thank you,” she said, well aware that she was an intruder, for all Dorrie’s cheerful compassion. “This was Shay’s room.” It was a request for confirmation of what she already knew, rather than a question.

Dorrie looked sad for a moment. “Once upon a time, yes,” she answered, at some length. By then, she was back at the door, poised to search out proper attire for her houseguest. She sighed. “I miss those days very much,” she said. “Cornie was far more charitable back then. When she thought William Kyle would make an honest woman of her, I mean.”

Aislinn was already pouring the water into the basin, smelling the lovely, finely milled soap, a luxury she had not enjoyed since before her parents died; she normally
used the strong yellow stuff Eugenie bought from a widow at the edge of town. Surprise stopped her in midmotion. “William Kyle? Would that be Billy’s father?”

Dorrie’s expression grew anxious; she stuck her head out into the hallway and peered in both directions before meeting Aislinn’s curious gaze again. Her voice was pitched only slightly above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Cornie thinks no one knows how William, Sr., spurned her so cruelly. Lately, though, I’ve suspected that the two of them are on speaking terms again.” She indulged in a wistful, tentative smile. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they fell madly in love, and Cornie could be happy after all? Like I was with my Leander, before Papa had him thrown in the hoosegow and brought me home?”

Aislinn held her breath, torn between a good story and the deliciously hot, clean water awaiting her. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Wonderful.”

At that, Dorrie vanished, and Aislinn closed the door, latched it and engaged in a hasty wash. She was wrapped in the towel when her benefactress returned with a brown calico dress, petticoats, a pair of drawers and a camisole. Left alone to put on the clothes, which were clean, only slightly too large and well worn enough to be comfortable, Aislinn pondered what Dorrie had revealed about Cornelia’s love for William Kyle the elder. The information was probably significant, she thought, though not to her. Like virtually every other decent woman in Prominence, she’d taken care to avoid the men from Powder Creek Ranch, father and son, for the man was known to be as ruthless as the boy, only far keener of wit. And thus more dangerous.

A match between Cornelia and the notorious rancher, given that lady’s surly disposition and Kyle’s devious and unconscionable ways, would be nothing less than the work of dark angels.

“You won’t say anything, will you? About Cornelia and Mr. Kyle?” Dorrie asked fretfully, minutes later, when Aislinn descended the rear stairway, looking for a way out of the house, and found herself in the kitchen instead. Miss McQuillan was at the table, pouring tea, and there were scrambled eggs warming in a copper chafing dish. Slices of toasted bread, well buttered, stood in a silver-plated rack, and Aislinn’s empty stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble.

She shook her head, in answer to Dorrie’s question, and sat down to eat. Her mind was divided between the conversation at hand and her own dismal prospects. Although Eugenie would surely forgive her, Aislinn’s sense of fairness prevented her from asking to keep her position in the hotel dining room. After all, if Eugenie relaxed the rules for one, she would have to do so for others, and the inevitable result would be chaos. Thus, it seemed to Aislinn that she was fresh out of choices, unless she was prepared to move on to yet another town. Which she wasn’t.