Megan

by Linda Lael Miller

  Caney inspected everything—the stove, the quilt, the latch on the window. There was a look of solemn concentration on her face.

  “Satisfied?” Megan asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Caney huffed but said nothing.

  “Let’s have that tea,” Skye suggested, speaking brightly.

  Megan smiled and nodded.

  Back in the kitchen area, Skye and Caney took seats at the table, while Megan set about brewing tea.

  “Where is that man, anyhow?” Caney demanded.

  “I assume you mean Mr. Stratton?” Megan inquired. Caney had always been bristly, even at the best of times, and the very fact that she had come to call was reassuring. “He’s gone to Virginia City to hire cowhands.”

  Skye looked worried. “You’re staying here all by yourself?”

  Megan didn’t reply, since the answer was so obvious.

  “I declare,” marveled Caney.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Megan snapped, reaching the end of her patience. “I’m a grown woman.” Augustus came to her, toenails click-clicking on the wood floor, and nuzzled her right hand. “With a dog. Besides, I’ve been wanting time to think, remember?”

  “That hound don’t amount to no kind of protection,” Caney protested. At least she was speaking to Megan; that was something. “You best come on back over the creek and sleep at Miss Christy’s till Webb gets home.”

  Megan had no intention of leaving the house unattended, even for a night. She had things to do. “I’m making shirts for Mr. Stratton,” she said, although she did not call Webb “Mr. Stratton” anymore or even think of him except in terms of his Christian name. “I’ve made patterns from newspaper and pinned them to the cloth, but I’m afraid to cut out the pieces.”

  Caney waved a hand. “I’ll show you how to do that,” she said.

  It was tantamount to a hug and kiss, that statement, given the rift that had opened between Caney and the youngest of her four charges. At least, Megan thought she was the youngest. Now she wasn’t sure of anything, where she and her sisters were concerned.

  Megan set water on to heat and measured dried tea leaves into a pot. “Thank you,” she said mildly, and turned her attention to Skye. “Where is little Susannah this fine day?”

  Skye beamed at the mention of her daughter. “She’s with Bridget.”

  Megan came to the table and sat down while she waited for the kettle to boil. “You’re happy with Jake, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

  “Deliriously,” Skye said, and blushed.

  Megan turned her gaze to Caney. “What about you? Have you made any progress with Mr. Hicks?”

  Caney’s expression darkened with the approach of a storm. “Don’t you mention that man’s name to me. I done showed him the road.”

  Megan was stunned, while Skye looked distinctly uncomfortable and, at one and the same time, amused.

  “What?” Megan asked, certain that she must have heard wrongly.

  “I’m done waitin’ for that man to marry up with me,” Caney went on. Apparently, if she was going to refer to Malcolm Hicks at all, she was going to call him That Man and nothing else. “I told him, ‘You go find some other woman to mend your socks and listen to your tall tales and boil up pig’s feet and beans for your dinner. I’m through.’ ”

  “But why?” Megan was truly surprised. Caney had always been so resolute, so diligent, in her pursuit of Mr. Hicks’s affections. “I thought you loved him.”

  Caney’s beautiful black eyes filled with tears. “I want to be his wife, not his woman. Unless he declares hisself and stands up with me, in front of Reverend Taylor, things ain’t never goin’ to change.”

  The kettle began to boil, and Megan got up, crossed to the stove, and, using an empty flour sack for a pot holder, removed it from the heat. When the tea was brewing, she returned to the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “I suppose he’ll come around, though. He must miss you terribly.”

  “Humph,” Caney said. “Where’s them yard goods you were talking about?”

  “I’ll get them after we have tea,” Megan replied gently.

  “Don’t want no tea,” Caney replied.

  Megan fetched the stack of folded fabrics from her room and set them on the kitchen table. Caney immediately spread them out to have a look, while Skye poured tea for herself and Megan. They sipped, keeping their cups at a thoughtful distance from the lengths of cloth their friend was inspecting.

  “You measured that man’s shoulders?” Caney asked. “ ’Fore you made the pattern, I mean?”

  Megan nodded. It brought on another rush of inner heat, remembering how she’d used lengths of string to chart the dimensions of Webb’s upper body.

  “He’s a big man,” Caney commented.

  “Umm-hmm,” Megan said, averting her own gaze only to be snagged by Skye’s bright, too knowledgeable glance.

  “Fine-looking, too,” Skye said.

  “Is that any way for a married woman to talk?” Megan challenged, but she was smiling. Webb was indeed fine-looking.

  “Why do you suppose he don’t have himself a wife, a man like that?” Caney speculated. She was apparently satisfied with Megan’s sewing project, so far, for she’d helped herself to a pair of scissors and started cutting out a shirtsleeve.

  Megan had asked herself the same question, but she’d never asked Webb, and she had no intention of doing so. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to know if he’d ever loved a woman—she did—but if he told her about his past, she’d have to reciprocate, and she wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

  “Maybe he was waiting to find the right woman,” Skye said, her words accompanied by the snip-snip of the scissors and Augustus’s deep, contented sigh. The dog was lying at Megan’s feet, his large, soft body warm against her ankle. “Webb, I mean.”

  Megan blushed. “Maybe he’s already got a wife someplace,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Skye scoffed. “She’d be here with him if he did.”

  Megan wasn’t sure why she was arguing the point; if she were perfectly honest, she’d admit that she purely hated the thought of Webb being married. Which was completely unreasonable of her, of course, since Mr. Stratton’s private life was no concern of hers. She was there to cook, clean, and sew, and that was all.

  She sighed. “Maybe,” she agreed. Whether Webb had ever taken a wife or not, there were bound to be women in his life. Hadn’t he told her, straight out, that he would confine his romantic interests to the ladies who worked for Diamond Lil? It made her blood sting as though it had turned to kerosene, just thinking about what probably went on in places like that.

  Caney had finished cutting out the first shirt and advanced to the second, after rearranging some of the pattern pieces to suit her. “One way you could find out, and that’s to ask him,” she said. “If he’s got hisself a wife somewheres, I mean.”

  Megan was mortified. “I wouldn’t!” she gasped, coloring up.

  Skye smiled over the rim of her teacup. “But you do want to know—don’t you?”

  Megan glared at Skye. “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know you too well. You’re smitten.”

  “I am not!”

  Caney made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. “You two. Carryin’ on just like you did when you was babies.”

  Megan and Skye exchanged another glance, but this one was serious.

  “How old was I when I came to Granddaddy’s farm?” Megan asked quietly.

  Caney paused in her snipping and looked at Megan, and her eyes were dark pools of sadness and inherited suffering. She pressed her full lips together, and for a moment, Megan thought she would refuse to answer. She had been standing to cut out the shirts, but now she sank into her chair, as though too weary to stand. “You, Miss Megan, were about two weeks old.”

  “Where did I come from?”

  Caney was silent for a long time, but her gaze was steady. “I reckon you know you were Mr. Thayer’s child, just
like the others.”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Megan said.

  Caney heaved a sigh. “You were born in New Orleans. Your mama died, having the pair of you.”

  Both Megan and Skye went so still that they might have been statues in some Greek garden, frozen in moonlight.

  “The pair of us?” Skye echoed. She’d set her teacup down, but her hands were still trembling.

  Caney’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “You’re twins, the two of you. Oh, you never looked alike, that’s true enough, but there’s always been a special bond holdin’ you together. Didn’t you ever wonder about that?”

  Instinctively, Skye and Megan linked hands, held on tightly, though all their attention was fixed on Caney.

  “Why?” Megan breathed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I promised your granddaddy I wouldn’t, that’s why,” Caney said. “If I could go back, I wouldn’t do any different. There’s been enough trouble in this family.”

  Skye was breathing deeply and slowly, as though trying to keep her composure, and her fingers clung to Megan’s. “Tell us,” Megan insisted, “what you know about our mother.”

  “Was she—was she a lady of the—the evening?” Skye dared to ask.

  Caney’s face was lined with pain and reluctance and the knowledge that it was futile trying to hold the old secrets at bay. “She was an Irish serving girl,” she said. Her countenance darkened again. “Sixteen years old. Prettiest thing you ever saw.”

  “Did our father abandon her?”

  “That rascal,” Caney said, her tone edged with an old fury. “Never you mind him. Your mama, she died the day after you were born. Wouldn’t have been able to keep two little babies anyhow. She had no family, and the people she worked for had already turned her out. She’d have starved to death if Gideon McQuarry hadn’t heard about her and stepped in to make sure she had a decent place to stay and food to eat.”

  Some of the luster had gone off that glittering summer day, for Megan at least, thinking of that poor young girl, destitute except for the kindness of a stranger, but at least she knew where she’d come from. And she was Skye’s twin. The knowledge was wondrous, and, at the same time, it seemed as though she’d always known.

  “What was her name?” Skye asked.

  Caney sighed. “Maureen,” she recalled, very softly. “I didn’t know her for long. Your granddaddy sent me to look after her, down there in New Orleans. I was supposed to bring her and her baby home to Virginia, once the birth was over—nobody dreamed there was two of you—but the chile was plumb done in. Mr. Thayer, he done broke her, someplace deep inside. She hung on for a day, then she just closed her eyes and died. Saddest thing I ever did see.”

  Megan and Skye were both silent, envisioning the scene. Skye had borne a child, and Megan could imagine what it must be like. They understood Maureen’s ordeal well enough.

  “Who was born first?” Megan asked.

  “Who named us?” Skye wanted to know, her words tumbling over Megan’s, tangling with them.

  Caney’s smile was sad. “Miss Skye, you were the first one born. Five minutes later,” she went on, turning to Megan, “you came along. Your mama gave you your names—she’d been saving them up, I think.”

  “And our father?”

  “Thayer McQuarry?” Caney made another gesture with her hand, one of dismissal, angry and blunt. “That scoundrel? He’d landed himself in jail by that time.”

  “Jail?” Skye asked.

  “He’d got himself into another duel,” Caney explained. She rose back to her feet and began to cut fabric again, taking refuge in work as she had always done. “Killed a senator’s son. He was hanged a month later.”

  Megan put a hand to her mouth.

  “I wish we’d never asked,” Skye murmured, her dark eyes haunted.

  Caney’s smile was all the more powerful for being totally unexpected. “Well, now,” she said, “that’s the thing with a McQuarry. They just keep on askin’ until they find out the truth, even when it would be better not to know.”

  Neither Megan nor Skye even tried to deny that. Their granddaddy had taught them most everything they needed to know to get on in life—except when to quit.

  Chapter

  5

  “ Webb? That you?”

  Webb, bellied up to the bar in Virginia City’s infamous Bucket of Blood Saloon, glanced up from the glass of whiskey he had yet to touch and stared in amazement into the greasy, bottle-lined mirror. He turned and faced his younger brother, Jesse. Seven years before, when Webb had seen him last, Jesse had been just sixteen, green and gangly, but he was a man now, pure and simple. There was a stony glint in his blue eyes that troubled Webb, but the .45 riding low on the kid’s hip bothered him a lot more.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  Jesse’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the base of his throat, went still again. He edged up to the bar and stood shoulder to shoulder with Webb, studying their reflections in the big mirror. Except for the ten years that lay between them—eventful years, into the bargain—they looked much alike. “I might ask you the same question,” Jesse responded at last.

  “I’m looking to hire some cowpunchers,” Webb allowed. “How’s Pa?” he asked when Jesse didn’t speak again right away. Any mention of his family was deeply personal to Webb; he’d never discussed them with anyone at Primrose Creek, even though he considered that his home. He didn’t worry about being overheard, though; the Bucket of Blood was a noisy place, even in the middle of the day, filled with tinny piano music, the click of pool balls, the arguments and celebratory whoops of its most dedicated patrons.

  Jesse nodded to the bartender, and a glass was set before him. He poured a helping from Webb’s bottle, raised it in a mocking toast, and drank. “Pa? Well, he’s meaner than he ever was,” he said.

  Webb closed his eyes. Mean wasn’t a fit word to describe the old man; he made a grizzly with a mouthful of wasps seem cordial.

  “He never put a bounty on my head?” he asked after a few moments, taking a drink at last. His hand shook a little as he raised the glass, and he hoped his kid brother hadn’t noticed.

  “Why the devil would he do that?” Jesse asked. “He’d rather shoot you himself.”

  Webb sighed. “And Eleanor?” he asked very quietly. It was odd; he’d loved Eleanor Stratton, his sister-in-law, from the day she came to the Southern Star as his elder brother’s bride, and once she’d turned to him for comfort and given him reason to believe she felt the same way. Now, when he tried to assemble her features in his mind, all he could see was Megan McQuarry’s face.

  “Same as usual,” Jesse allowed. “At least, she was fine last time I was there. That was a couple of years back. I’m not much more welcome on the old place than you are, big brother.”

  Webb had expected Eleanor to return to her home folks back east after Tom was killed. After he had killed Tom, beat him to death with his bare hands. The memory brought up his gorge, and he pushed the glass away, his mind awash in blood. His brother’s blood. “I’m surprised she stayed,” he said at some length, and his voice sounded gruff and strange, even in his own ears. “At least I figured she’d remarry and move to town.”

  Jesse looked puzzled. Time had hardened him, and there was a bleak distance in his eyes that gnawed at Webb in some deep and hurtful place. He’d been all Jesse had, and he’d abandoned him. If the boy had gone wrong in the meantime, Webb would have to claim his share of the fault. “I reckon Tom would frown on that,” he said.

  For Webb, it seemed that all the mechanisms of heaven and earth, seen and unseen, ground to a halt in that moment. Tom was dead. Webb had knelt beside his body, in the tide of receding rage, and felt for a pulse. There hadn’t been one.

  Suddenly, Jesse laughed. “Good God,” he rasped, refilling his glass nearly to the brim. “You thought you killed him!”

  Even in the Bucket of Blood, such a remark was likely to draw attention. Webb gr
abbed the whiskey bottle with one hand and his younger brother’s elbow with the other, then hustled him toward the swinging doors. Outside, on the sloping wooden sidewalk, Jesse still laughed. Webb dragged him into an alley, dropped the bottle to the ground, where it shattered musically, caught Jesse by the lapels of his worn shirt, and hurled him backward against a clapboard wall.

  “He’s alive?” he demanded. “Tom is alive?”

  Jesse’s face went cold, and he shrugged out of Webb’s grip. “Yeah, no thanks to you. Took him a year to get over the thrashing you gave him.”

  Webb closed his eyes, but the memories pursued him all the same, glaring and fresh, acrid with the stench of blood. He’d found Ellie hiding in the corn patch that morning seven years back, her delicate arms covered with bruises, her eyes blackened. He’d raised her to her feet, led her back to the house, and attended to her wounds as gently as if she were a child. She hadn’t admitted, even then, that Tom had come in drunk, sometime in the night, and taken his fists to her, but Webb had known. He hadn’t been at home himself the previous evening, or he might have heard her screams. God knew he’d heard them before, and he’d intervened before, too.

  “Leave him,” he’d said. “I’ll look after you.”

  She’d stared at him, dazed, and shook her head, curled in on herself like a small animal trying to shield itself from further blows. He carried her to his own bedroom, laid her down, and covered her gently. Then, coldly furious, he’d gone in search of Tom.

  “They’ve got a boy now,” Jesse said, in a more prudent tone, bringing Webb back from the ugliest regions of his mind. “Named him Tom the third.”

  Webb wished he hadn’t dropped the whiskey, because he sure could have used a drink just then. In point of fact, he could have used a whole still. “How old?” he ground out.

  “The boy?” Jesse frowned, but there was something in his eyes, a knowledge, a suspicion. A smirk displaced the frown. “I reckon he’d be about six by now. Ellie must have been carrying him when you gave Tom that licking.”