Two Brothers

by Linda Lael Miller

  Aislinn cast a despairing and tender glance toward Shay, one Tristan would have given his gun hand to receive from such a woman. Then she nodded and went out.

  Hard words were heard from below, but presently she returned, with the linens, a pair of sewing shears and a shining brooch studded with little jet beads and bigger than any Tristan had ever seen. Aislinn’s resolute expression made him avert his eyes for a moment, like a man who’s accidentally stumbled onto some intimate and private scene.

  She proved an able assistant to the doctor, cutting the sheets into strips that matched his specifications perfectly, holding the cloth while Yancy wound it round Shay’s ribs and pulled it tight, like that cowboy’s rope out in the street earlier. Tristan stood back, out of the way, keeping watch over it all.

  Shay strayed in and out of consciousness during the ordeal, and it was plain to see that he was suffering, but he never cried out, never did more than groan. When it was done, and the doc clasped the bindings shut with that fancy brooch Aislinn had surely wrested from Cornelia, Shay opened his eyes. Seeing Aislinn, he winked and grinned, and that was when Tristan knew his brother would be all right for sure.

  “You’d better give him a dose of this,” Yancy told Aislinn, taking a brown bottle out of his bag and setting it down on the bureau with a thump. Laudanum. “He’ll be hurting real good for a day or two.”

  Shay lifted his head off the pillow, saw the bottle, and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “Keep that stuff away from me.”

  Aislinn crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and brushed Shay’s hair back from his face with a gentle hand. She was smiling, and there was a radiance about her that put a man in mind of a stained-glass window. Tristan made hasty excuses and left, and the doctor was close behind.

  Aislinn leaned forward and kissed Shay softly on the forehead. She supposed she might regret such an impulsive action later on, but just then she was too glad that he was alive to care about proprieties. “How do you feel?”

  Shay chuckled, a gravelly sound from his throat, and for a moment his pain-filled eyes were alight. “I’m not sure. Do that again, though. I think it helps.”

  She laughed, but the tears came then, too, in a storm of terrified relief, and though she quickly put a hand to her mouth, it was too late. Shay reached up with one arm and drew her gingerly down onto his chest, where he held her.

  “Here, now,” he said. “It’s over, and I’m all right.”

  She sobbed. “For now!” she wailed. “Until those men come back—until something like this happens again—”

  “Shhh.” He kissed her temple. “It was just bad luck, that’s all. The circuit judge will come through any day now—he’ll put Billy and the old man in prison, where they belong, and everything will settle down. You’ll see.”

  Aislinn raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Nothing is ever that easy,” she protested. “Especially not when someone as powerful and rich as Mr. Kyle is involved.”

  Shay brought her back down, brushed her lips with his own. “Hush,” he breathed, and she was, against all reason and rationality, comforted by that simple, silly word. By the warmth of his mouth and the touch of his hands.

  It wasn’t until much later that the news reached Prominence: a peddler had found a man hanging, dead, from the lowest branch of an oak tree, several miles outside of town. The victim was soon identified as the circuit judge.

  Chapter 9

  AISLINN MANAGED TO KEEP THE NEWS of the judge’s murder from Shay for almost four days, during which he slept a great deal and dutifully swallowed the beef and barley soup she and Dorrie spooned into him at every opportunity. At his request, she read aloud from the journal his mother had kept, long ago on a wagon train, and his gaze, distant and blue as a mountain sky, stayed fixed on the ceiling while he listened.

  Experiencing Mattie Killigrew’s joys, tribulations and hopes for herself, through the fading, carefully shaped words inscribed on the thick vellum pages of that diary, Aislinn was glad Shay wasn’t looking at her. That way, she was able to wipe away the occasional tear without his knowing.

  On the fifth day, Tristan appeared for his usual morning visit, wearing a badge and looking so much like Shay that it seemed no great wonder a lot of the townspeople were mightily confused. Aislinn knew there was still a lot of speculation concerning who was whom, and some folks even maintained there were actually three brothers, all of them just alike. The unmarried ladies of Prominence were especially fond of that particular theory, which at once amused Aislinn and caused her to guard the door of Shay’s sickroom like a mother bear with a cub.

  Tristan gave Aislinn an apologetic glance as he entered, reached for a chair, and turned it back to front beside Shay’s bed. He straddled the seat and regarded his brother with a cordial nod. “’Morning,” he said.

  Aislinn stood with her hands knotted in front of her, holding her breath. Shay needed a lot more rest to recover from the injuries he’d sustained in the confrontation with the Powder Creek men, but the simple reality was that he’d been sworn in as a U.S. marshal, he had a job to do, and time had run out. If they kept the truth from him any longer, he would never forgive either of them.

  Bare-chested, pillows plumped at his back, his bruised and abraded face cheerful, his hair in fetching disarray, Shay grinned. “’Morning,” he replied. “You know, that badge looks good on you. I might just let you keep it.”

  Tristan made a show of admiring the star gleaming on the lapel of his dark coat. “Pretty thing though it is,” he said, “I’m not cut out to be a lawman. Too much politicking to suit me.”

  Aislinn bit her lower lip and held her peace, but it was hard. She wanted nothing so much as to interfere, to remind Shay of how close they’d become in the past few days, to speak of the tentative plans they’d made and the secrets they’d shared, to ask him straight out to turn in the badge and make another sort of life for himself. For both of them.

  Shay assessed his twin through narrowed eyes. “Had a run-in with the town council, did you?”

  Tristan chuckled, but Aislinn, who’d taken care to place herself where she could see both men’s faces, saw that his expression was rueful. “The mayor paid me a visit this morning to suggest that we put the whole matter behind us. Forgive and forget, since old Will Kyle helped settle the area and found the town.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Shay growled, already looking for his clothes. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “Much worse,” Tristan said, getting up from the chair, finding trousers and a shirt and stockings in the bureau drawers, tossing the garments onto the bed, taking care to avoid Aislinn’s eyes the whole time. “Somebody lynched the circuit judge.”

  Setting his teeth, Shay flung back the covers and sat up. He was as naked as the day poor Mattie Killigrew gave birth to him, but again it didn’t matter, given the situation. Aislinn stood back, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop him from getting dressed and personally taking on every hooligan, drifter and outlaw on the Powder Creek payroll.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll give in now,” he said, grimacing with pain as he grappled into his clothes. Wisely, Tristan too kept his distance, even when Shay gained his feet, teetered like a fence post in a shallow hole, and righted himself just in time to keep from crashing into the washstand. “Billy and the old man are still in jail where I left them, aren’t they?” His blue eyes were snapping.

  Tristan nodded, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “They are,” he answered. “I don’t figure they’ve drawn closer in their time of trouble, though. They’ve been at each other like a couple of castrated cougars since you locked them up.”

  Shay got his gunbelt from under the bed with a little unwilling help from Aislinn—he’d insisted it be kept within reach during the whole of his confinement—buckled it on and drew the pistol, popping the cylinder open with a practiced thumb and giving it a spin. Even Aislinn, who knew little of such things, could see that the gun was ful
ly loaded.

  Only then did he allow himself to meet her eyes. The plea she would not offer aloud must have been plainly visible in her face, because he shook his head in grim refusal. Then he was out of the room, clattering down the rear stairs.

  Tristan waited in the doorway for Aislinn, who could not bring herself to follow just yet. He spoke her name as a gruff question.

  She turned, looked at him. “Yes?”

  “Pray,” he said. Then he, too, was gone.

  She sat on the edge of the narrow, rumpled bed for a long while, mourning all that she had lost, and all that she might lose in the hours and days ahead. Then, with a sigh, she got to her feet and left the room where she had spent the better part of a week, and didn’t bother to close the door behind her.

  She could not make herself go into the general store, knew she would only be underfoot at the jailhouse. Thus it was that Aislinn presented herself at the door of the hotel kitchen, where she found Eugenie on the step, enjoying a mug of the strong coffee she favored and a rare respite from hard work.

  “How’s Shay?” she asked, with the rough geniality that was typical of her. “I don’t need to ask after you, ’cause I can see by your face and the way you carry yourself that you’re plum tuckered out.”

  Aislinn sat down on the step below Eugenie’s. “He’s out of bed and determined to get himself killed as soon as he can.”

  Eugenie gave a grim chuckle. “He’ll be all right, Shay will.” She paused, and when she went on, her tone was more serious. “You’ve got to believe that, because believin’ has an effect on things.”

  “I’m in love with him,” Aislinn said, with as much gravity as if she were confessing a mortal sin to a priest. “Dear heaven, Eugenie, what am I going to do?”

  “Marry him?” Eugenie suggested. “He’ll give a woman good, strappin’ babies, a man like that, and show her a fine time in the process.”

  Aislinn blushed wretchedly. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of bearing Shay’s children, not consciously at least, but now all the attendant images rushed into her mind in vivid detail. “He hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

  “Maybe you’d better ask him, then,” Eugenie said, sounding utterly serious. “You wouldn’t want to let him get away, like poor Dorrie’s Leander.”

  Grateful for a change of subject, however tenuous, Aislinn picked up the thread of Eugenie’s statement and followed it. “She offered to show me that last letter you gave her,” she said, with a sigh. “She’s expecting him back shortly.”

  Eugenie made a sound that was both sorrowful and skeptical. “It’s pitiful,” she said. “The way she’s kept sendin’ off them letters all this time, and never a one back. The man’s probably dead.”

  Aislinn frowned. “But she got one just recently—”

  The older woman look a sip of coffee and savored it, her gaze fixed on something long ago and far away. “He wasn’t worth much, poor Leander. A weak-minded man he was. And a rounder. Old Shamus was right to run him off, though it broke the girl’s heart.”

  “But you yourself gave her the letter,” Aislinn protested.

  Eugenie sighed. “That was from some lawyer, back East.”

  Aislinn put a hand to either side of her head, drew and expelled a deep breath, and tried to slow her thoughts down. The love Dorrie cherished, indeed lived for, was fraudulent, imaginary. And yet her expectations were very real. “You’re not saying she’s mad?”

  “Just a mite strange,” Eugenie said tolerantly. “She wouldn’t be the first spinster to build herself a pretty dream to live in.”

  Aislinn bit her lower lip, miserable.

  “Is there somethin’ wrong?” Eugenie wanted to know.

  “Dorrie’s not pretending,” Aislinn said. “She’s all but packed her bags.”

  “Land sakes. I’d best get this straight with her right now. Drat it all, I knowed she shouldn’t be livin’ a lie that way, but poor Dorrie was so brokenhearted after her pa brought her back here—” Eugenie was on her feet, ready to go in search of her friend, but before she could take a step, Cook called to her from inside the kitchen.

  “Eugenie, you better come quick. One of them girls of yours is bent over a commode in one of the rooms, sicker than a saloon dog.”

  Clearly, Eugenie was torn, but she chose the most immediate duty and went to look in on her ailing employee. Aislinn, on the other hand, set out for the general store at a brisk march.

  Fortunately, there was no sign of Dorrie, but Cornelia was at the dry-goods counter, taking payment for ten pounds of flour and some canned meat from a wornlooking woman in a calico bonnet and colorless dress. A man in a fancy suit was examining a box of cigars with intent concentration, while a farmer ran a loving, callused hand over the handle of a new plow.

  The smile Cornelia offered Aislinn was brittle, and too bright by half. “So there you are. I was beginning to think you were being paid for mooning over my brother instead of helping out here in the store.”

  The woman in calico accepted her purchases, gave Aislinn a look of helpless sympathy, and scurried away. Aislinn leaned over the counter and spoke in a soft voice.

  “Why have you let Dorrie go on making believe that Leander would come back?” she demanded.

  Cornelia looked taken aback for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you ungrateful little snippet. In fact, I’ve had quite enough of you. I’ll thank you to get your things and leave my house and my place of business!”

  The cigar man and the farmer turned around at this shrill outcry; Cornelia treated them to an icy, unfocused smile that skimmed over them both but never actually landed.

  “I would rather sleep on the street than accept anything from you,” Aislinn said truthfully, keeping her tones mild and melodious. She didn’t care enough about Cornelia McQuillan to hate her. “Shay is very fond of Dorrie. He’ll help her, if you won’t.”

  Color surged into Cornelia’s face, then receded again, leaving a bloodless shore of white in its wake. This time, she made an effort to keep her voice down. “Of all the impertinent—” She paused, huffed out a fiery breath, hot as a dragon’s. “I let my sister play her silly games because it kept her occupied. She was in despair. The whole town was whispering about her, snickering behind her back, after Papa went and fetched her back here. I thought it best to leave her be.”

  Aislinn stared at Cornelia. Sandwiched between the woman’s protests of concern for Dorrie was the staggering truth: she, Cornelia, had been embarrassed by the gossip and the scandal. “You simply didn’t want to be bothered,” Aislinn accused. “You were ashamed.”

  “Nonsense,” said Cornelia. “It’s kept her calm all these years, my going along with her delusions. Kept her from making a fool out of herself all over again.”

  Before Aislinn could respond, Dorrie stepped out of the storeroom behind the counter, looking white and shaken. She had one hand pressed to her mouth, and tears glistened in her eyes. “Leander isn’t coming back?” she asked, in a child’s voice.

  Cornelia recovered first. “Are you happy now?” she asked, practically baring her teeth at Aislinn.

  Aislinn was looking at the other sister. All her concern was for her friend. “Dorrie, please, listen to me—”

  Aislinn rounded the counter and put an arm around Dorrie’s thin waist, felt her trembling. Again she was reminded of a bird, a wounded one this time, fallen from a high nest and irretrievably broken. “Come along,” she said gently. “I’ll see you home. Make you a nice cup of tea.”

  “Don’t you set foot in my house, Aislinn Lethaby,” Cornelia warned, shaking her pointing finger. “If you dare, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Aislinn asked calmly, raising an eyebrow. “Have me arrested?”

  “Tea won’t bring Leander home. I don’t want any tea,” Dorrie protested.

  “Yes,” Aislinn said. “You do. I mean to add some sherry to it, too.” With that, she led Dorrie down the center
aisle and out into the sunshine.

  “Leander is dead,” Dorrie said.

  “I think so,” Aislinn replied. She wanted to weep with pity and with sorrow, but she would do that later, when Dorrie didn’t need someone strong to lean on.

  “But she’d convinced me that I wasn’t wrong to think he’d return. That he truly had loved me.”

  “Oh, Dorrie, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not sure I will ever forgive her. It’s like she gave Leander back to me just so she could take him away again, the spiteful thing. She never liked him any better than Papa did.”

  Aislinn didn’t speak except to make encouraging noises. Dorrie prattled on as they walked toward the McQuillan house, but she wasn’t rambling. She was quite sane, whatever anyone else thought, and talking was her way of sorting through the wreckage of a collapsed dream.

  “She did something awful, you know,” Dorrie whispered, when they entered the kitchen. While Aislinn pumped water to fill the teakettle, she sat at the round oaken table in the middle of that spacious, sunny room. “Cornelia, I mean.”

  “What?” Aislinn asked. Dorrie was probably referring to her sister’s relationship with Mr. Kyle, a tidbit Aislinn had forgotten to mention to Shay, for all the time they’d spent together during his recovery.

  “I’ll show you,” Dorrie said. There was a strange, hunted glimmer in her eyes, but she wasn’t mad, Aislinn was convinced of that. Dorrie got up and led the way to the top of the cellar stairs, where she took a kerosene lantern down from a hook and lit the wick with a wooden match.

  Aislinn glanced back over one shoulder and shuddered. She might not be afraid of Dorrie, but she wasn’t keen on the idea of letting Cornelia sneak up behind her.

  The old steps creaked mightily as they descended, and the air was dank and moldy-smelling. Dorrie led the way through a labyrinth of chests and crates and shrouded pieces of furniture, finally coming to an old wooden trunk draped in cobwebs and piled high with dusty bluegreen fruit bottles.