Anderson, Catherine - Keegan 01 - Keegan's Lady.doc

Keegan’s Lady

by

Catherine Anderson

PROLOGUE

Colorado Territory

April 1866

The night wind wailed like a lonely spectre as it swept over the moonlit grassland, carrying a chill from the snowcapped Rocky Mountains to the west. Jamie Keegan lifted his hot face to the coolness and drew in a deep breath.

In all his eleven years, he couldn't remember a single time when he had been so weary. He'd been working nonstop since sundown, and from the looks of things, it would be several more hours before he saw a bed. Needing a rest, he leaned heavily against the horse he'd just hitched to his stepfather's covered wagon, then wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a dusty sleeve.

"Easy, Patch," he murmured when the exhausted, dun-colored gelding snorted in protest at being back in the traces. "Pa knows what he's doing. Come mornin', we'll find you horses a nice grassy spot near water. You'll see. While we laze about under the wagon, you four-legged beasties can graze and rest your bones."

Even as he uttered those words, Jamie was hard-pressed to believe them. Judging by what he'd seen, the folks in these parts were about as friendly as the Yankee tax collector who'd put them out of their home. They wouldn't cotton to sharing their water—especially not with strangers from the South. Since it was a good two-day wagon ride to reach open country, that put him and his family in one heck of a pickle.

Truth to tell, Jamie was just plain scared. What had begun in St. Louis as a dream come true for everyone was rapidly becoming a nightmare. He wasn't sure his fragile mother could survive the hardships of the return journey east, not without some decent food in her belly and a good long rest before they set out.

"Don't see why Pa won't stand and fight those fellers," he muttered to the still unsettled horses. "Not that I think he's yeller, or nothin', cause he ain't," he hastened to add. "That scar he's got on his arm from a Yankee sabre is proof enough of that."

Patch snorted again and rolled his eyes. Back in Virginia, Joseph had owned a dozen draft horses. Thanks to the thieving Yankees, Patch and his brother were the only two left.

The dun craned its neck to nuzzle Jamie's shirt front. Wishing he had some treats hidden in his pockets, Jamie rubbed the gelding's velvety muzzle. Since the war, times had been hard, and the days when his ma could spare lumps of sugar were a distant memory.

Looking out over the grassland, Jamie blinked to dry his eyes. Only babies cried, and he was no crybaby. It was hard, that was all, turning around and leaving after they'd gone through so much to get here. It didn't make sense. No sense at all, the way he saw it.

This was about the prettiest country he'd ever seen. To the west, the Rockies, their peaks limned by moonlight, rose in craggy silhouette against the slate sky, the sheer granite slopes giving way to foothills and then prairie. His pa said the soil on these rolling flats was rich and fertile, perfect for raising crops or running a herd of cattle. If they looked for a hundred years, Jamie doubted they'd find another piece of land to compare.

How could his pa let a few swindling crooks force him to turn tail and run? The land was theirs, bought and paid for with practically every cent Joseph had been able to scrape together. With his own eyes Jamie had seen Joseph's deed to the land, too. Maybe he didn't understand all the fancy language, but his pa's name was spelled out real clear at the top, and there was a genuine, official-looking seal in one corner, all shiny and gold, with a red ribbon to boot.

No, sir, it wasn't right to let those weasels steal their dream. Jamie wished he were bigger. Big enough to teach that loudmouthed Conor O'Shannessy a few lessons in manners.

After giving Patch a reassuring pat, Jamie crossed behind the now fully loaded wagon and headed for the cookfire where Joseph was repacking the chest holding the staples and some of the cooking utensils.

Hearing Jamie's boots crunch on the grass, Joseph glanced up, his thin shoulders snapping taut. Though the War of Secession had been over for better than a year, he still spooked easy. Jamie figured that was because Joseph was different from most folks, a truly gentle soul from the marrow of his bones. The awfulness of battle ate away at him in quiet moments, never giving him peace.

Looking down at his stepfather now, Jamie wished with all his heart that they had been able to keep the plantation in Virginia. If so, Joseph wouldn't be in such an awful spot, homeless and penniless, with a bunch of hungry mouths to feed.

"Pa, can you and me talk private like?" Jamie asked as he stepped into the lantern light.

Joseph flashed him a curious look. "We can, but first hand me that coffeepot yonder, will you, Son?"

Though Joseph spoke with a soft drawl, his manner more humble than authoritative, Jamie obeyed him without hesitation, saying, "Yessir," in the respectful way his ma had taught him.

"Horses all hitched up?" Joseph asked as Jamie handed over the pot.

"Yessir, all hitched to the wagon, just like you said."

"As soon as your mother and the boys return from the creek, we'll be heading out. I reckon we can make it to No Name in a couple of hours, or near to. I'm thinking we can probably spend the night behind the livery. Who knows? Maybe we can even muck stalls for the owner and make a little money for supplies."

Jamie glanced toward the gully where a pretty little creek bubbled over rocks the color of rust. As was her custom, his ma had insisted on bathing his little brothers before bedding them down in the back of the wagon. Cocking an ear, Jamie could hear eight-year-old Joseph chortling and the younger boys squalling. Sometimes, though not often, Jamie was glad to be the oldest. At least his ma didn't feel it was necessary to help him wash anymore.

Joseph wiped out the coffeepot with a cloth before placing it in the proper compartment of the custom-made chest. Then, as though privy to Jamie's thoughts, he said, "I know you don't agree with my thinking on this land business, son, but once you're responsible for a family of your own, you'll find yourself looking at things a bit differently."

Jamie dug at the grass with the scuffed toe of his boot. "Yessir."

The weary lines of his face etched in shadow by the bright moonlight, Joseph sighed and sat back on his haunches. "Try to understand, Jamie. I'm one man against five."

"You've got me to stand beside you."

"And I'm lucky to have you. But you're still only a boy, with a boy's strength. Those are grown men, and mean fellows at that." Joseph shook his head. "I have to think of your ma and little brothers. If there were trouble, they could get caught in the crossfire. I'd never forgive myself."

"But, Pa, we can't just walk away! We have to stand and fight. It's our land, bought and paid for in good faith. Without it, what'll we do? We only got a little money. Our food is pert near gone. You keep talkin' about headin' back east, but what'll we eat? If just one of our horses goes lame, we'll be stranded."

"The good Lord will provide, just as he always has." Joseph closed the lid of the wooden cabinet, then pushed to his feet and reached over to rumple Jamie's dark hair. "As for standing and fighting? You take after your real father, sure as rain is wet, boy. From what your ma says, he was a fighter, too. There's not a thing wrong with that, mind you, so don't think I'm saying that there is. According to Scripture, Saint Peter himself lived by the sword."

Jamie shook with an inexpressible frustration. "Sometimes, Pa, you got no choice. It's that or die."

Joseph wagged a finger. "For the godless, perhaps, but the Good Book speaks of a better way, warning that violence begets violence." He held up a hand to keep Jamie from interrupting him. "Come morning, we'll pay a visit to the marshal in No Name. I'll report what those men have done, show him the deed to this land that I paid good money for. If he's a decent, God-fearing man, he'll take them to task, and we'll get to stay here, after all."

"But what if he ain't decent and God-fearin'?" Jamie knotted his hands into fists. "What if he don't help us none?"

"Then we'll have to leave. I can't put your ma and the smaller children at risk. There's not a piece of land on earth worth a single hair on any of their heads. Nor yours, either."

Joseph bent to lift the chest onto his shoulder. Jamie followed him over to the wagon, then helped as best he could to lift the chest over the tailgate and settle it amongst their possessions. Joseph began checking the canvas on one side of the wagon to be certain the tie-downs were secure.

Schooled to assist his parents in whatever way he could, Jamie ran around to the other side of the wagon. As he jerked to tighten the last rope, an odd sound drifted to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw four brilliant flares of light bobbing toward their camp.

"How's it looking on that side?" Joseph called.

Jamie swallowed to get the quivery sensation out of his throat. "Pa, riders are coming this way. Fast! Four of 'em, carrying torches."

Joseph stepped around the wagon to investigate. The white of his shirt looked almost blue in the moonlight. Jamie ran to him and grabbed his arm. "Should I get the rifle out of the wagon?"

Joseph patted his hand. "Don't be silly, son. The coffeepot, maybe. That's a bad habit you're developing, thinking the worst of every stranger who comes along."

Jamie looked out into the darkness. The riders were drawing closer by the moment, and all his instincts told him that he and his stepfather should make ready to defend themselves. Instead, as his convictions dictated, Joseph walked out to meet the riders.

At that moment Jamie's mother Dory emerged from the darkness to call anxiously, "Who is it, Joseph?"

"That's what I'm fixin' to find out," Joseph drawled as he turned to offer her a reassuring smile.

"It's rather late for folks to be out and about. Don't you think?"

In the moonlight, Dory's large blue eyes looked like black splashes in her pale face. When she drew up beside Joseph, he curled an arm over her frail shoulders. "A little late, yes." He glanced around. "Where are the boys?"

"Little Joe is helping them dress. The water isn't that deep. When I heard someone coming, I thought I'd best get up here, just in case you needed me."

Joseph chuckled. "It seems everyone is a bit on edge tonight."

Dory glanced back at Jamie, then anxiously at the swiftly advancing torches. "You have to admit, Joseph, that the welcome we received today was less than neighborly."

"True, but I agreed to leave. O'Shannessy left here satisfied that I would do so before morning. We shouldn't have any more trouble from him or any of his—"

"Paxton!" an angry male voice boomed. "You miserable back-shootin’ coward!"

So thick it was suffocating, dust billowed up from around the skidding horses' hooves as the riders brought their mounts to a stop. Eyes stinging from the grit, Jamie stared at the four men. The big, broad-shouldered fellow in the lead was Conor O'Shannessy, the man who had warned them off the land earlier that day. Behind him rode Estyn Beiler, one of the two scoundrels who had honey-fuggled Joseph in Saint Louis. His sidekick, a short, rotund man named Camlin Beckett, wasn't present tonight.

Even in the dim light, Jamie could see the taut lines of the men's faces. Their eyes burned with hatred, a mindless hatred that made his heart thud against his ribs. Every instinct urged him to run for the rifle. Joseph was wrong. The good Lord didn't always provide. Sometimes people had to save their own hides.

Spinning on his heel, he raced for the wagon, the wild pounding of his pulse resounding against his eardrums. His breath whistled in his throat by the time he reached the wagon's tailgate. Grasping the wood, he hauled himself upward, barking a shin and elbow as he scrambled for purchase. The rifle. He had to get the rifle.

When Joseph wasn't carrying the Spencer in his saddle boot, he kept the weapon safely wrapped in one of Ma's quilts and stowed under the wagon cot. He maintained that keeping a loaded gun within easy reach wasn't a safe practice when small children were underfoot.

Dimly aware of the angry voices outside, Jamie dropped to his belly and reached under the bed. The wagon jerked, pitching him backward. He realized someone was up front, messing with the horses. He heard Patch whinny as he shoved his arm back under the bed. Fishing frantically through the layers of quilt, he thought for a moment that the rifle wasn't there. Then, finally, he curled his hand over the Spencer carbine's barrel. Scrambling to his knees, he paused to listen. As near as he could make out, O'Shannessy and the others were accusing Joseph of murder.

It was the craziest thing Jamie had ever heard.

Jamie's thoughts were cut short by his mother's scream, which was followed by "Oh, my God, no! Are you mad? Turn loose of my husband. Please! He hasn't murdered anyone! He's never hurt anyone in his entire life. Oh, my God! Stop this. Stop it this instant!"

Spurred into motion by the fear in his mother's voice, Jamie tumbled from the wagon. The instant his feet touched the ground, he froze to get his bearings.

The four men had gotten off their horses and thrust the ends of their torches into the ground. Patch, Joseph's dun gelding, had been unhitched from his traces and stood at the center of the men, one of whom held fast to the cheek strap of the animal's harness while two others tossed a struggling Joseph, hands tied behind his back, onto the gelding's back.

Fear slammed into Jamie. Like the lawless outlaws in a dime novel his ma had once read to him, these men meant to lynch his pa.

Dory threw herself forward and clung to Joseph's leg, pleading for his life between ragged sobs. One of the men flung her to the side, and she landed hard.

Jamie felt his knees give, but somehow he remained standing, dumb with terror. And then he remembered the rifle. It was his pa's only chance.

"You let my pa go!" he cried as he swung the rifle butt to his shoulder. "Let him go, I said, or I'll shoot. I mean it!"

Jamie had no sooner issued the threat than a beefy hand jerked the gun from his grasp. He looked up to see Conor O'Shannessy looming over him. The burly redhead reeked of whiskey and horse sweat. He staggered slightly as he lifted the rifle in his capable hands.

"Git outa here, boy. You can't help your pa. Nobody can."

Dory sobbed piteously. "Joseph! Oh, dear God, Joseph!"

Jamie whirled back around. His heart nearly stopped when he saw that Joseph, still helplessly astride Patch's broad back, was sitting under a nearby oak tree, a noose dangling before his pale face.

"No! You let my pa go! Lynchin' a man is against the law."

"We are the law," Estyn Beiler hollered. "I'm the marshal in No Name, boy!"

The marshal? Jamie started forward, only to be pulled back by Conor O'Shannessy. "You can't hang my pa," Jamie protested. "He ain't done nothin'!"

"Oh, yes, he has, boy. Murdered Camlin Beckett! Shot him in the back."

"You're wrong! It wasn't Pa. It wasn’t!”

"Who else would've done it? Camlin was a good man. There isn't a soul for a hundred miles who wished him ill. Nobody except your father. I should've known to expect trouble. Goddamn, no good squatters. There ain't a one of you worth the powder it'd take to blow you straight to hell."

Jamie saw that the other men were lowering the noose over Joseph's head. Fists and feet flying, he threw himself at O'Shannessy. "You let him go! You let him go!"

"Why, you miserable little shit!"

The metal plate of the rifle butt glinted in the torchlight as O'Shannessy drew the weapon back. The next instant, Jamie's head seemed to explode. A horrible, bone-shattering pain radiated from his left cheek to fill his vision with flashes of white. With a whoosh of expelled breath, he landed in a loose-jointed sprawl, too dazed even to spit the dirt from his mouth. Curiously, he felt little pain when O'Shannessy followed the blow to his face with a kick to his body, the toe of his boot connecting sharply with Jamie's right hip.

"Jamie!"

Feeling as though he were separated from reality by heat shimmers, Jamie heard his mother's scream, then saw her lift her skirts and run toward him. An instant before she reached him, Conor O'Shannessy snaked out a hand and brought her reeling to a stop. Her petticoats flashed beneath her swirling skirts as he jerked her against him and gave a low, evil laugh.

O'Shannessy tossed away the rifle. "Well, now, aren't you a fine little swatch of calico."

Dory struggled to escape his grasp. "Let go of me! My son—"

"Deserved what he got, just like that no good bastard yonder."

Jamie worked his mouth to tell his ma that he was all right, but for the life of him, he couldn't make the words come out. He looked past her at the oak tree. Joseph was jerking frantically from side to side to avoid having the noose lowered over his head.

"Ma, help Pa," he finally managed to gasp out.

Following his gaze, Dory saw what was happening and stopped struggling. What little color remained in her face drained away. "I'm begging you, mister. Don't do this terrible thing. You have to believe me. Joseph would never, never shoot anyone. I swear it. Please, at least allow him a trial before a jury!"

O'Shannessy shook his head. "He's had all the trial he's gonna get, and we've found him guilty."

"Please. Don't kill him. I'll give you anything. The wagon, our horses, what little money we have. Anything!"

O'Shannessy snorted. "I don't want your old wagon and broken-down horses, woman."

"Then what? Anything. Just name it, and it's yours. Please, Mr. O'Shannessy, please."

Dory's plea ended with a horrible, tearing sob. O'Shannessy peered down at her for a moment. Then his broad face creased in another drunken grin. After signaling to his friends that he wanted them to hold off on the hanging for a moment, he said, "Well, now, darlin’, that's a mighty tempting offer."

"Dory, no!" Joseph cried. "Dear God in heaven, no. I'd rather—"

One of the other men cut Joseph short by shoving a wadded handkerchief into his mouth. Dory laughed, a horrible, wet, shrill little laugh that didn't sound quite sane. Desperate to stand up, Jamie fought with all his will to move, but even as he struggled, O'Shannessy was leading his ma away from the light.

Sensation slowly returned to Jamie's body, first to his fingers, then to his hands. He managed to push onto his knees, but then another wave of dizziness took him down again.

He had no idea how much time passed before O'Shannessy reappeared. Still fastening his trousers, he staggered toward the oak tree.

"Gentlemen," he said with a flourish of one hand, "you may now hasten to make an honorable man of me. As you know, I don't consort with married ladies. Widows, however, are fair game."

"No!" The bodice of her dress agape, Dory came tearing out of the bushes. "You promised! You gave me your word!"

O'Shannessy let loose with a loud, coarse burst of laughter. One of his cohorts slapped Patch on the rump. Startled, the gentle dun gelding surged forward, taking the man astride his back along with him.

When Joseph reached the end of the rope, he was jerked from Patch's back. As the noose cut cruelly into his windpipe, he arched spasmodically. Then, as though in time to his wife's horrible sobbing, he kicked and twitched, the macabre cast of his shadow dancing across the ground. His gasping mouth seemed to grin around the wad of handkerchief between his teeth.

When at last Joseph hung lifeless, O'Shannessy staggered to his horse. Hollering for his friends to do the same, he climbed into the saddle.

"Leave the torches," he yelled, still laughing. "The boy'll be needin' light to bury the bastard by." With that, they rode away into the darkness.

CHAPTER ONE

No Name, Colorado

June 1885

Startled awake by a thunderous noise, Caitlin O'Shannessy sat bolt upright. Disoriented from sleep, her first thought was that her father had come home drunk again and was storming through the house toward her room. She had already leaped from bed and was throwing on her wrapper when it occurred to her that Conor O'Shannessy had been dead for nearly a year.

Heart still pounding, Caitlin went utterly motionless in the inky darkness and cocked her head to listen. The noise, she realized now, was coming from outside. Horses? Judging by the din, there were six or seven, and all of them seemed to be heading toward the barn.

Pushing a shank of long, curly hair back from her eyes and quickly tying the sash of her wrapper, she padded across the bare wood floor to the window where light from a waning moon shone faintly through Irish lace. As she swept aside the curtains to peer out, several months' accumulation of dust stung her nostrils. Disgusted, she waved a hand to clear the air.

The barn, which sat facing the house about a hundred feet away, looked dark and quiet, just as it should. Above its hip roof, the pale half-moon resembled a broken ivory button dangling by an invisible thread from sequined blue velvet. Though she stared until her eyes started to burn, Caitlin could detect no sign of movement in the patches of darkness under the billowy oak trees scattered about the yard.

Strange, that. She felt certain she'd heard horses. So where were they?

The question no sooner presented itself than she saw lantern light flicker faintly inside the barn. As the glow gained brightness, elongated shadows leaped to life upon the interior plank walls. Having spent more than one night in the barn tending sick animals by lantern light, she recognized the distorted shadow shapes as those of men and horses. Several of each, judging by the jumble.

Though it was too dark to see the clock beside her bed, she guessed it to be well after midnight, a late hour for company to come calling. But since her brother Patrick had taken up drinking as his favorite pastime three months ago, very little surprised her.

Thoroughly awake now, she sighed and leaned a shoulder against the window frame. Here she was, in the middle of cutting and baling the season's first stand of grass hay, and Patrick had come home with a passel of friends in tow? He was twenty years old, for Pete's sake only two years younger than she was. When in heaven's name was he going to stop this infernal carousing and get back to the business of running the ranch?

Since he'd started drinking, Patrick rarely spent much time at home anymore, which left her to do all his work as well as her own. With the additional load, she seldom found opportunity to clean the house. And now he'd brought friends home with him? They would undoubtedly make a big mess in the kitchen, and if any of them spent the night, she'd have linen off all the beds to wash next week as well. As if she had time for things like that? While Patrick was trying to drown his demons in a whiskey bottle, someone had to keep food on the table. It seemed little enough to ask that he at least show her some consideration.

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...